This House Has a History
by sea.nymphe
Summary: Seventeen years after the murder of his parents, Harry Potter inherits their old home. When Harry goes against her advice and moves into it, Hermione goes along with him in an attempt to preserve his sanity. Upon moving in, she begins to become suspicious that there's something strange about the house *Nonmagic AU; Haunted House AU; Currently undergoing revision.
1. Welcome to the Neighborhood

_Author's Note: this story will contain dark themes, including but not limited to: murder, suicide, assault, and medical violence. Proceed with caution if you find this triggering._

 _Also, this in an AU heavily inspired by American Horror Story. That being said, it won't follow the same plot and you don't have to have seen the show to understand it._ _I know this first chapter brings up a lot of questions with basically no answers. That's kind of the point right now, because, you know, plot. All will be revealed in time._

* * *

Harry had come up with the idea the summer after their junior year.

Ron thought it sounded perfect. Sirius had told him absolutely not, and that if he had any choice in the matter the house would have been bulldozed and the land sold by now.

Hermione, however, had the most to say about it. She had told Harry it was a bad idea from the very start. That it would never help him get closure. That it was unhealthy. That it was morbid. That, beyond all that, it was just creepy.

Who would want to live in the house their parents were murdered in? Harry James Potter, apparently.

But she went with him and Ron to tour the house, hoping he'd see it, get freaked out, and change his mind. It didn't seem like she was having any such luck.

"And here," he said, pointing to yet _another_ bedroom, "is where my parents used to keep my dad's office. They could have used the bigger room downstairs, but he wanted a smaller spaces. Mione could even turn this into a library, if she wanted to. You can see his bookshelves are even still in here."

He smiled at her, trying to show her how perfect it was. It wasn't working.

The tour continued, with Ron and Harry excitedly pointing out what each room could be used for, what Harry's parents had done with it all, where they wanted to put their furniture, and what furniture they could buy now that they had all of Harry's inheritance. They didn't skip pointing out any single detail, making sure to go on about it to her at length.

At one point, Harry spent an entire five minutes talking about the Tiffany light fixtures, and how much his mother had apparently loved them. Hermione still wasn't impressed.

Well, not with the decision to move into the house, that is. The house itself was very impressive.

The house(more of a mansion, really) was a classic Victorian, containing six bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms, an attic, a basement, a den, four fireplaces, hardwood floors, Tiffany fixtures, stained glass windows, and all with modern amenities. _For fuck's sake,_ it even had a gazebo in the backyard.

That being said, the whole 'James and Lily Potter were stabbed to death here' thing made it seem a lot less inviting(at least to Hermione; Harry and Ron didn't seem to mind much).

She slipped away, out to the backyard, and found herself on the gazebo while Harry and Ron continued excitedly debating over the best place to put a pool table. It seemed her complaints were falling on deaf ears.

She was just about to pull out a book when an old man with long white hair and a long white beard to match stepped up and sat down next to her. "Thinking of buying the house, are you?" He asked it conversationally, as though he weren't trespassing on private property.

"It's already owned," she explained, "I'm simply trying to convince him not to move into it."

"A wise decision," he smiled kindly, "Not many can handle the responsibility that comes with the home."

Her head tilted curiously, finding that a bit odd. The house may have been quite old, but it was in excellent shape considering its age. "What do you mean? What responsibility?"

"Old houses come alive in ways many people don't understand. This one especially."

She pursed her lips, debating whether she should ask him to explain or just take this all as the ramblings of an old man. Turning to look at him, she noticed a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. She found it off-putting.

Though she was just about to politely excuse herself, the man spoke up again. "Is this the man you're trying to convince?" Looking up, she saw Harry striding towards them, looking excited as ever.

"Yes," she replied, lips pressed into a thin line, "yes, it is."

"'Mione, we wondered where you ran off to," Harry stated, then extended a hand to the stranger. "Harry Potter, nice to meet you."

"Albus Dumbledore," he replied, shaking Harry's hand, "and no need to introduce yourself Harry, we've met before. I was wondering if you'd ever come around again." There was a pause, where Hermione watched as Harry's brows furrowed, attempting to understand the meaning of what he just heard. "We're neighbors. I knew your parents," Albus explained.

"Oh! Really? That's wonderful," Harry exclaimed, and he had that giddy expression he always did when any mention of his parents came up. "Well don't be a stranger! You can drop by any time. Always welcome to friends of the family, you know. And of course I came back. It is my house, isn't it?"

The man, Albus, didn't respond, instead simply giving a polite smile. It made Hermione feel a bit uneasy, but she chalked it up to paranoia. This whole situation made her uncomfortable, and she was hardly in an unbiased state of mind. That still didn't mean she wanted to lengthen the encounter. "Harry, um, we should probably go inside. Find Ron and all."

"Yeah, yeah, 'course." He turned back to Albus. "It was nice meeting you. And again, feel free to drop by."

As Hermione and Harry walked back towards the house, she looked back once. Albus was still sitting on the gazebo, and though he looked perfectly serene with his hands folded across his lap, she couldn't shake her nerves about the man.

Just as they walked in, Ron was coming down the staircase. "Where the bloody hell did you guys run off to? I swear I turn around for one second and you're both gone. This place is huge, thought you might have gotten lost. Not that I'm complaining, -about the size- that is. You know, we were all packed like sardines back at mum's but-"

"Took a stroll outside," Harry interrupted, before turning back to Hermione. "I told you. It's perfect. Even Ron agrees."

She sighed, bit the inside of her check and crossed her arms over her chest. She knew she wasn't going to win this one. Didn't mean she was giving up without one last attempt at being the voice of reason. "Ron would love any house that gave him his own bedroom, that's hardly a selling point. Yes, the house is beautiful Harry, but I don't think it's healthy for you to come back here. You've had the chance to see it. Gotten your closure. Now I think you should sell it and move on."

"You know damn well that's not what I want." His voice was starting to waver, and Hermione tried to be gentle but it was difficult when he insisted on being so dense.

"Harry, I know it's not what you want, but-"

"'But' nothing, Hermione! My parents bought this house for my family. I was supposed to live here and grow up here and be here with them. If I can't do it with them, I'll still have the next best thing. I'm not giving it up and you're not changing my mind. If _you_ don't want to be here, then _you_ don't have to. But I'm staying."

She shook her head. She really had no leverage here, no ability to sway him.

"Come on, 'Mione," Ron urged gently, "this place is brilliant. And, it's a bit morbid, yeah, but it's not that bad. Got character, but that's not so much a bad thing, right? You always did love history and this place is practically ancient. And, it's always been the three of us. Harry and I are staying. You should too."

She sighed, and allowed her fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose while she thought it over. To her, it wasn't a big deal. It's just a pretty, interesting old house. That used to be a crime scene, but that was irrelevant to her personally. It wasn't a crime scene anymore, and it's not like it was covered in blood stains or police tape. Her concern had always been about Harry, and how it would affect his health. He was staying. There was no reasoning with him. She was damn sure she wasn't about to let him do it alone.

Reluctantly, she agreed.

* * *

A week later, they were moving in.

As teenagers fresh out of high school, they didn't have much. They didn't even need a moving van, instead just renting a trailer they could shove their suitcases and a few boxes into. James and Lily's furniture was still there, having never been moved. _Technically, it's Harry's furniture now,_ she reminded herself.

Harry had said she could take any of the bedrooms she wanted, most likely in an attempt to placate her because she refused to hide her discomfort. Though she considered taking the master suite just so that Harry wouldn't( _gross_ , she had reminded him, _creepy and gross_ ), she decided against it.

She chose the one next to James's old office, which they had agreed to turn into a library(essentially dictating the room was hers as well). It was a short walk away from the bathroom, but she decided she wouldn't mind. Harry and Ron were on the opposite end of the floor, so it's not like she'd risk running into them while wearing nothing but a towel anyways.

The first thing she grabbed was a box of books, deciding to bring them up to the library -her library- as quickly as possible. The box was heavy, but she managed to lug it up the stairs just fine. Walking down the hallway, she approached the library when suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks, feeling like she was literally frozen on the spot.

There was a man in the room. A man she didn't know, who shouldn't be here, going through the books still left on James's bookcases. He was tall, she noticed. Much taller than her(though, admittedly she was a bit on the short side), with neat black hair, a thin build, and, though she couldn't clearly see his face yet, she saw a hint of a sharp jawline. If he hadn't broken into her home, she'd probably have thought he was attractive.

Anger broke her out of her initial shock.

 _"Excuse you,"_ she started, using the tone that had branded her as 'bossy' as a child and 'bitchy' as she got older, "I know this house has been vacant for a long time, but it's not anymore. You're trespassing, and now there's people here to notice."

He turned to face her properly, his lips quirking into a hint of a mocking smile, and it caught her so off guard that she nearly dropped the box she was carrying. His smile faltered, and he rushed over to take the box from her arms.

It was heavy, so she let him. She still wasn't going to thank him for breaking into what was now her home.

"Why are you here?" She asked, glaring at him as he put the box down.

He huffed, unsatisfied with her response. "You're supposed to say 'thank you' when someone prevents a large box of books from breaking your foot."

"And you're supposed to answer the question."

He pursed his lips for a moment, likely thinking over his response.

"I'm researching the history of the house."

She rolled her eyes. _Great,_ _we haven't even been here a day and this bullshite has already started._

"Well you're not anymore. People live here now. You can't just waltz in whenever you want." Not that he could in the first place, but now there were people here to actually enforce it.

He grinned at her like it was a joke only he understood, and _oh god,_ whoever this was, she decided right there that she hated him. "Who are you?" She demanded.

"My name is Tom. I live around here," he stated, still grinning like the devil, "and, correct me if I'm wrong, but I take it you know absolutely nothing about the house you're moving into."

"What makes you say that?"

"If you did, you probably wouldn't be here."

"I know what happened to James and Lily," she stated, putting her hands on her hips, "their son is my best friend, and we're the ones moving in. So, yes, I know about the house."

An amused chuckle left his throat and she had to restrain her fists to her sides. "James and Lily are just the tip of the iceberg, sweetheart."

The glare she gave him was near venomous, but it didn't phase him. " _Don't_ call me 'sweetheart.'"

"Apologies, _love_ , but you didn't give me a name to call you by."

"Because we don't know each other and I don't want you to know my name. What I want is for you to get the fuck out of my house."

That, however, did seem to affect him. For only half a second, she swore he looked _angry_ , but just as quickly as she noticed it, it was gone.

"Did you know this house was built by a doctor? Do you know any of the families that lived here before the Potters moved in?" He asked, completely ignoring her hostility, expression forming a mischievous smirk. "Did you know they say this place is haunted?"

She rolled her eyes. _Haunted? Really? Couldn't get any more creative with the scare tactics?_ "I really don't care. Get out."

His smile didn't falter as he told her, "I'll see you around."

"I certainly hope not."

She watched as he left her room and walked down the hall towards the stairs, turning once he reached the staircase. Deciding to keep bringing in boxes(and to see him out), she followed only a few steps behind him. She reached the stairs only seconds after he did, and she swore she heard the steps creak under his weight -but he was gone. She didn't see him anywhere.

Rushing down the stairs, she glanced through the room and down the hallway, but, still, nothing. "Tom?" She hesitantly called out, wondering where he ran off to. She hadn't heard him leave and she didn't want him hiding around.

Almost immediately, the front door cracked open and he snaked back in through the crack. Seeing that, no, he hadn't just disappeared or wondered throughout the house, caused a faint sense of relief to wash over her.

"Changed your mind, darling? Planning on inviting me in for tea now, maybe?" He asked, his lips once again forming that Cheshire grin.

She was just about to tell him to leave, again, and for good measure to never come back, when Harry came down the stairs. "'Mione, who's this? You didn't tell me we had company."

" _We don't,"_ Hermione started to say, just as Tom stepped forward towards Harry, extending a hand.

"Tom Riddle," he said, voice smooth and causal, like he didn't just show up here uninvited, "and you must be the Harry Potter that ' _Mione_ has told me so much about."

She turned her head towards him, a look of suspicion forming on her face. She hadn't mentioned that her best friend was named Harry, only that he was the son of James and Lily. _Well,_ she reasoned, _he did say he was researching the house. He probably already knew._

It also didn't skip her notice that he had called her 'Mione, most likely just to be an arsehole, just to prove that even though she refused to give him her name he found out anyways.

"Uh, yeah, that would be me," Harry replied, taking his hand. "Are you another neighbor, then?"

"Yes," he replied, and then after a moment added, "you've been gone a long time. I was starting to assume you had sold the place."

"I'm never selling it," Harry replied definitively, before he took on a confused frown, "Did you know my parents then? You look a bit, well, young to have remembered them."

"I know the history of this house," he stated as though that was an answer. "I know every occupant who has ever lived here, every renovation that has ever been done. I've taken a lot of time learning everything there is to know about this place. It has a truly _fascinating_ history."

The stranger, _trespasser,_ finished, and looked at Harry as though he was just _hoping_ that Harry would ask him more. Harry opened his mouth again, seemingly entranced and apparently unaware he was being baited.

"Harry," Hermione cut in, wanting to end the conversation before Harry formally invited her unwanted guest in, "there's still boxes in the car. We should go get them."

She gave him a stern, while simultaneously pleading, look.

"Oh, yeah," he replied lamely, but apparently he caught her drift, "Hermione's right. We're real busy right now, but it's been nice meeting you, Tom."

"Of course," Tom replied, perfectly rehearsed smile never fading, "I'll see around then, Harry. _Hermione._ "

This time when he left, he didn't come back in.

Harry turned to her. "He seems like a nice bloke, yeah?"

She scowled at him. "He's a condescending prick who broke into your house."

Harry defensively crossed his arms over his chest. "Why did he break in? He didn't look like he was stealing anything."

"Does it matter? He said he was researching the house, but that doesn't mean he can just break in!"

"Well, yeah, but..." Harry trailed off, furrowing his brows before asking, "So, you think he knows anything? Since he's been researching the house and all."

She knew where his mind was headed and she also knew it wasn't a good idea to go there. The murder of the Potter family had never been solved, and the trail(minimal as it was) had long since gone cold. Harry was convinced the murderer was still out there, and was determined to solve it himself.

"Harry, please," she said gently, and she didn't want to sound like a broken record but this is _exactly_ why she didn't want him moving back here. It was tragic, but it was a hopeless case. He shouldn't waste his life on an effort so futile.

"No, Hermione, you heard him. He knows everyone who ever lived here, every renovation," as he trailed off his eyes began to brighten and no, no no _no_ , this was bad, "maybe he's found something that the police missed. I don't bloody well care if he was snooping around if he found something to reopen the case!" He moved towards the door, "Did he say which house he lived in?"

Hermione threw herself in front of him, and though she was small enough he could easily just push her out of the way, he didn't. "Harry, think about this. You can't just go running after strangers asking about your parents. And, as you said yourself, he's young. It's unlikely he ever even met them, and even less likely he would remember them if he had. He's probably just read what was made public about the case. Let's just get unpacked, and you can think on it later, okay?"

He looked at her with what she interpreted as a glare, but he still reluctantly agreed. "If you see him again, will you direct him to me?"

She nodded, internally praying that the man would simply vanish so she'd never have to.

* * *

After she had brought in the final box of books, she started to unpack them, filling the still mostly empty shelves. Her books were always meticulously organized, but it seemed that James didn't organize his at all, much to her dismay. They were scattered randomly in bunches across various shelves, not even bothering to keep books of the same series together. They were also covered in a thick layer of dust, but she figured that was to be expected given the fact that no one(except her arsehole neighbor, apparently) had been in here in almost two decades.

If this had been a public library, she'd have been appalled.

It seemed strangely disrespectful to move James' books, but she reasoned that she was just moving them onto a different shelf, not throwing them away, and it's not like he had any use left for them. Given the way he organized them, she assumed he probably hadn't used them much when he was alive either. She decided she'd just put them all together on their own shelf, so if Harry needed any of them(not that he would, but better safe than sorry), he could find them easily.

That would also give her a chance to organize them properly.

As she went to grab all the books from the various shelves they had been tossed on, she saw one specifically that caught her eye. She hadn't noticed it when she had browsed through only minutes before. She knew she hadn't, because she would have remembered that there was one book without any labeling on it, only a blank red cover, and, for whatever reason, no dust on it.

Cautiously, because she felt a bit like a child sticking their hand in a cookie jar, she opened the front cover and read.

 _April 17, 1999_

 _We've barely been here ten minutes and James is already making 'the walls ooze green slime' jokes, claiming we'll be the next Amityville Horror and we should start setting Harry up with acting classes._

Hermione slammed the book shut and dropped it to the floor like it had burned her, not even getting through the first page.

The date, the names mentioned -There was little doubt in her mind; She had found Lily Potter's diary.

She checked over her shoulder, again, to make sure no one had seen her.

Like everything in the house, the book, diary, now belonged to Harry. He'd want it, since it belonged to his mother. He'd probably treasure it, consider it one of his prized possessions like he did with his dad's old leather jacket.

But it also might feed into his obsession with his parents(more specifically, with their deaths). His fixation had grown to the point that he saw no problem sleeping in the exact same room his parents had both been brutally murdered in. He was constantly looking for evidence to reopen the case, despite the fact that there was _nothing_ , not even a fingerprint left behind at the crime scene.

This book, this diary, could be evidence. It could be the missing piece to the puzzle. The very first entry was dated less than a year before Lily and James had died. Lily could have written in it _the exact night_ that she died, potentially only moments before the murder itself.

A thought came to her that made her blood run cold.

Lily wouldn't have had any reason to keep her diary in James's office, and this was the only book with no dust on it.

 _What if it had been placed there, hoping to be found?_

If that were the case, who moved it? And why would they have wanted it found? James and Lily were dead, and their killer would not want to leave behind evidence, nor would they want to go back decades later to leave a trail. That would simply be illogical.

 _Now you're sounding as bad as Harry,_ she mentally chided herself, _we've already met two trespassers. Most likely someone just found a book and thought they were putting it back, never having opened it. I'm just being paranoid._ _Ridiculous, honestly._

She still decided she wasn't going to hand the diary over to Harry until she had thoroughly looked through it. Slipping the book into her pocket, she quietly retreated to her bedroom and hid it in her nightstand drawer.

* * *

They had just taken a lunch break when there was a knock at the door.

Hermione wasn't exactly eager to meet any more neighbours and would have been happy to ignore it, but Harry, who still had half a sandwich in his mouth, perked up. "I'll get it!"

He ran towards the door, Ron following sheepishly behind him. They both missed the withered glance Hermione sent their way as she too trailed behind.

A few feet back, Ron and Hermione watched as Harry opened the door, revealing a woman with long, dark hair that fell down her back in sleek curls(which Hermione couldn't help but enviously compare to her own curls, which were nowhere near as sleek and defined), heavy lidded grey eyes, and a black trench coat that she wore despite the summer heat.

She was checking her short, blood red painted nails when she looked up and locked eyes with Harry. She cocked her head. "Are you the man of the house?"

Harry gave the woman a questioning glance as he looked her over and nodded. "Yes. If you don't mind me asking, who exactly are you?"

"Bellatrix Black," she replied shortly, "though you can call me Bella, if you wish. And I'm the housekeeper. I work Monday through Thursday, meaning I'll start next week. I come in at ten in the morning and I leave when the house is clean." She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight on one foot, glancing from Harry to over his shoulder at Ron and Hermione. "Understood, then?"

Harry turned back from the door, sending a confused glance at Hermione, as though he somehow expected _her_ to explain what was going on. She gave him a nudge of her head as though to say, ' _it's your house'_.

Harry turned back to the woman, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, it's just that uh-" He paused, "it really is just the three of us, I'm just not sure a housekeeper is really necessary right now and-"

Bellatrix dramatically rolled her eyes and sighed, then uncrossed her arms so she could literally push past Harry into the house. She pointed to a doorknob. "Blood stains," she said, "are particularly hard to get out of wooden floors and can damage them if you're not careful. Especially when you have people," she threw Harry a glare, "running around and bashing their foreheads open."

Harry rubbed his scar as he began to say, "how did you know I hit my head against a-" but Bellatrix had already moved into the kitchen.

Opening a drawer and pulling out a spoon, she drawled, "if you're not careful about how you care for silver it can tarnish." The spoon landed back into the drawer with a clank as she dropped it, then began to walk up the stairs with the trio dumbly following behind.

They continued down the hallway, Bellatrix leading as though she owned the place, until she stepped through a door. A specific door that made Hermione's start to object, because she did _not_ want to hear about how they cleaned up the blood left from the murders of Lily and James Potter, and she especially did not want _Harry_ to hear, but-

"Replaced the carpet, I see," Bellatrix noted, kneeling down next to the bed, running her fingers over the floor. " _That_ was the one mess that couldn't be perfectly cleaned, leaving a stain of its own on this house. Everything else was kept it perfect condition, but not this carpet.

"A severed carotid artery bleeds quite a lot. _Drip_ , _drip, drip_ , until you're left with a puddle on the floor, sinking through the carpet, all the way down to the wood. Took a lot of bleach to get it out, but then, well, bleach leaves a mark of its own. Not even _I_ could fix that. Good call, simply ripping the flooring out all together. Still a bit of a pity, though."

She stood back up, seeming completely unphased.

This time, Harry did speak up. "You talk about it like you were there."

"Didn't have to be, to know what happened. The mess was just legendary." The woman, Bellatrix, arched an elegant brow at him, daring him to continue.

"You barely look older than us," he said, rising to the challenge. "You would have been, what, three, four, maybe, when it all happened? And yet you seem to know an awful lot about what happened here. Where did you hear about it all from? Why do you know so much?"

Despite her small stature, the woman seemed to have mastered the art of looking down at people. With an expression of distaste, she said, "money has been taken from your parents account for the housekeeper's since they first moved in here. They knew this house requires _special_ care, and they knew only certain people could be trusted to provide it. Cooking spills, mud, rust, mold... _bodily fluids_ \- all messes that need to be cleaned. And one way or another, I'm always the one to clean them."

She finished the sentence with finality, implying she thought that was a suitable answer for the question. Given her demeanor, no one seemed keen to argue with her. She cleared her throat and said, "I already told you my schedule. If you would like to make changes to it, that is negotiable. I also already explained that I've been working here in your absence, paid directly through your parents' account. Any questions?"

Ron and Harry once again both looked to Hermione, expecting her to have something to say, most likely to make an objection so they wouldn't have to.

Well, if they were the case, they were about to be disappointed.

As unexpected as Bellatrix's employment was, Hermione could understand why Lily and James had hired her. Old houses needed special care, as they were prone to decay. An inexperienced person may accidentally cause damage simply trying to mop a floor. Not to mention, she had been working here a long time and it wouldn't be fair to leave her unemployed with no warning.

She was a bit... abrasive, but if all she did was clean, she could be easily ignored. Hermione would have to find a way to keep Harry distracted when she was around so he didn't interrogate her about his parents, but that could be managed.

"No, miss," she smiled, "no questions and we'd be glad to have your help."

* * *

"Weird day, yeah?" Ron said as he, Harry, and Hermione had all slumped against various couches within the living room. The day had been spent lifting boxes, moving furniture, and interacting with the strange(and slightly intimidating) new neighbors. They were all exhausted and ready to call it a day.

"First, we have to move everything in. Not that that's too hard, but there's a lot of stairs, you know? Not to mention, I stubbed my toe. Then that weird bloke shows up and, well I never actually saw him but Mione, you've been grumbling about him all day and you're the smart one so you're probably right-"

"Ron," Hermione interjected, "you can just say you're hungry. You don't have to do that thing where you start a conversation, rattle on for fifteen minutes about nothing, and then pretend to off handedly ask if anyone has had dinner like that wasn't your intention the whole time."

The freckled boy sheepishly turned red, and Harry spoke up. "Yeah, food sounds good. There's a Thai place around here's that's supposed to be really good. We could get takeout?"

Hermione scrunched up her nose. "I'd rather not have to clean up after you two inevitably go into food comas, passing out until tomorrow afternoon."

"You wouldn't have to clean up. Isn't that why we have a housekeeper now? Which is great, by the way. She's kinda scary, but she's also fit so-"

"Ron, we are not going to get into the habit of making messes just because we know someone else will clean them. I don't care if it's her job, we're not going to deliberately make it difficult for her!"

"It's not deliberate, it's more that it just-"

"So no takeout," Harry said, putting an end to the bickering, "why don't we just eat there?"

"Fine."

"Agreed."

"Well then," Harry said, a slight smirk on his face, "that settles it. Five minutes long enough to get ready?"

"I don't even need that," Hermione answered, "just let me grab my purse."

* * *

Albus watched the trio leave, making sure that they were truly gone before he pulled the old key out of his pocket. The Potters had given it to him shortly before they died, "for emergencies", they had said.

They had been so hopeful, so trusting, and so optimistic. They didn't deserve the fate they got, but looking back, very little could have been done to prevent it. He tried his best, but they had no idea what they had gotten themselves into.

Checking for cars and watching eyes, he crossed the street and continued up to the front door.

Some of it, Albus admitted, was his own error. His own fault. He had hoped that Harry would simply move on, but no such luck. He'd do his best to protect their son this time around, he decided as he stuck the old key into the lock and turned it.

The floors didn't creak, and the house appeared to be empty, but he knew better. He made his way up the stairs, then down the hall, stopping at a bedroom.

The walls were still painted green, he noticed, though from what little decor had been added, he assumed this room was now occupied by the girl Harry had brought back with him. He had never caught her name, and, rude as it was, he had forgotten to ask. Though, in his defense, he had been a bit preoccupied.

"As usual, I find the toys I have been presented with to be quite dull. You should know by now that I don't play well with others, Dumby."

Tom had spread himself out elegantly over the girl's lilac bedspread, absent mindedly tossing a small ball over his head(likely a toy for the fluffy orange cat he'd seen prowling around).

"It's good to see you, Tom. And I'm sorry you're unhappy, but you should know by now that I have no control over who lives here-"

"Or who dies here, apparently," he interjected with a sneer.

"-but I'm asking you to please not make this more difficult than it has to be. For any of us. Don't do anything rash, you may regret the consequences."

Tom stopped tossing the ball, and instead gave it a squeeze, resulting in a terribly obnoxious squeaking noise as he threw Albus an intense glare.

The boy always had loved to be difficult and contrary just for the sake of it.

"Have you informed our new tenants of the consequences of being antagonistic?"

"I'm working on it. They are new here, after all. They don't know yet. They'll learn."

Tom simply scoffed in response.

"Well," he said, "if that's all, you can leave. Need I remind you that you're _trespassing_?"

Albus knew there was nothing further to be gained from the conversation. A sad smile formed on his face as he said, "not today. Goodnight Tom, and please remember what I said."

He heard a loud banging as the door behind him slammed shut. At this point, there was little he could do but hope for the best.

* * *

When they had gotten back from dinner, the trio had all agreed they were wiped and ready for bed. Harry retreated to the master suite, and Ron to his own bedroom next to Harry's.

Hermione decided to shower first, having no desire to get her freshly washed sheets covered in the sweat she had built up from moving boxes all day. After her shower, she padded back to her room and changed into her pyjamas.

As she approached the bed, she noticed one of Crookshanks' toys laying next to her pillow, along with a surprisingly large dent in the comforter. _Looks like Crooks might need to go on a diet,_ she thought, pushing the toy aside as she crawled into bed and reached for the book she was currently reading.

As her fingers brushed against the spine of the novel, she hesitated, remembering Lily's diary.

Curiosity overpowering guilt, she opened up her bedside table and reached for the diary instead.

 _April 17, 1999_

 _We've barely been here ten minutes and James is already making 'the walls ooze green slime' jokes, claiming we'll be the next Amityville Horror and we should start setting Harry up with acting classes._

 _It's not that bad, honestly! Not bad at all, really. You can't even tell what happened. It's just a big, beautiful old house. The history is unfortunate, but the house has been excellently maintained and James and I aren't too weirded out by it all._

 _Not to mention the old owner sold it to us for such a great price, we'd be willing to overlook just about anything._

 _But, anyways, our first day here has been great. The movers moved in all the furniture so James and I didn't have to worry much about the heavy lifting or the stairs, we just had to watch Harry and make sure he didn't get a piano dropped on himself or something(he really takes after his dad with the reckless curiosity, and James is not helping to discourage him)._

 _On another note, we met the neighbors today. Or, one of them, at least. Albus was certainly great with Harry. He was so kind, and so patient -even when Harry pulled on his beard! He said he's had foster kids for a long time now, and with how good he was with Harry, I can see how he'd be able to help those kids. Wonderful man, truly. I invited him over for tea tomorrow. It'd be nice to have friends around here._

 _We also have a housekeeper now. Supposedly every previous owner of the house had one, and the girl who was currently taking the position explained to me all the ways that modern cleaning chemicals can damage the house. That's why it's in such good condition -because girls like Bella knew how to keep it perfectly pristine while preserving it. Fascinating, really. I'll have to ask her more about that._

 _Funny, she reminds me a bit of my sister Petunia. Not that it matters, but that's just my initial impression of her. Very dry sense of humor, but she means no harm. I can tell._

 _Plans for tomorrow: child-lock everything and put up baby gates, grocery shopping_

 _I really think we're going to be happy here._

After reading the first entry, Hermione shut the diary and placed it back in her nightstand.

She couldn't help but feel a bit... off about it. She couldn't articulate why, but reading Lily's words, in her own handwriting, and knowing that she lived here and died here -well, it all felt very surreal. It might have been because she had never actually met the woman, only heard stories about her, and now having tangible proof of her existence made her feel a little bit more real, a little more personal.

And there was also the fact that the actual entry, while short and quite optimistic, left Hermione with an ominous feeling.

It seemed strange to see 'Bella' mentioned in the diary, but Hermione reasoned that it must be a coincidence. Bellatrix may be a fairly uncommon name, but Isabella has been one of the most popular names of the last century. Bella was more likely than not just a nickname.

That wasn't what worried her.

Tom, as much of an arsehole as he may be, wasn't lying that there was more to the house than just the murders of James and Lily. How much more, Hermione wasn't sure yet, but she was determined to find out.

Ignoring the tightness in her chest and the chills on her skin( _it's just cold,_ she told herself, wrapping the blankets around tighter), she reached over to her nightstand and turned out the light.


	2. Sleepwalkers

_Author's Note: I know this update is going up super fast, but since the last chapter was more or less introductory, I wanted to give you a quick update that contributes more to the general plot. After this, expect updates about once a week or so._

* * *

Hermione had a morning routine. She'd wake up at promptly seven a.m., feed Crookshanks, make breakfast, brush her teeth, and then wash her face before getting dressed and formally beginning the day.

She did it every single day, without fail, and she usually didn't mind that no one else saw the point to her routine. It gave her a sense of consistency, which was especially important now as she had just uprooted her entire life.

So when her alarm went off and she padded down to the kitchen, still wearing only her pyjamas and socks, she was incredibly surprised to see Ron already awake and in the kitchen.

While the fact that he was awake on his own before noon was alarming enough, his appearance was worrying as well.

His hair was disheveled far beyond his usual bedhead, his skin looked pale and sallow, and there were dark bags under his eyes. If she hadn't witnessed his car nap the previous day, she'd have assumed he hadn't slept in days.

"What the hell happened to you?" She blurted out without thinking.

"That, bad, huh?" He said with a lopsided grin. "I think I was sleepwalking. Woke up in the basement, and bloody hell does my head hurt. It was dark -like pitch black, dark- and fuck if I know where the light switch is down there, so I had to stumble around until eventually I managed to find the stairs. Tripped a few times as I crawled up, too." His attempt at making light of the situation fell flat due to his obvious exhaustion.

He let out a deep sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

That's when Hermione noticed the bruises.

"Oh my god, Ron, what did you-" she stopped mid question as she rushed over to inspect him, to see the extent of the damage.

There was a large purple bruise on the left side of his face, spreading from behind his hairline all the way to the ridge of his brow. Though his arms had initially been under the kitchen counter when she came in, she could now see clearly that all along his arms were bruises, varying in shades of yellow and green along his forearms to deep blue and purple on his wrists.

This was not normal.

"Ron, what the hell -no, no- what the actual fuck happened to you? Did you somehow manage to get into a bar fight in your sleep?"

"Well I was asleep so it's not like I-"

Hermione held her hands up, stopping him midsentence. "Just- just stay there. Don't move."

Opening the freezer, she grabbed a handful of ice, shoved it into a plastic bag, and made a makeshift ice pack. She then wrapped it tightly in a cloth and returned to Ron, gently pressing it against the bruise on the side of his head. He let out a hiss at the pressure, but didn't complain.

"Hold this here," she said gently. He took the ice pack from her and did as told. "Sleepwalking, huh?"

"Yeah, weird, I know. It's never happened before, but you know, it's probably just a one off thing. I wouldn't be too worried about it." He smiled, trying to reassure her.

"Well, you look like you got hit by a bus, so forgive me if I'm a bit worried. You said you woke up in the basement? What was down there?"

Harry had skipped over both the basement and the attic during the tour he gave them of the house. He had said there was no need to go through those spaces, and had mentioned his mum always kept them locked up.

Ron shrugged nonchalantly. "No idea. I told you, it was dark. By the looks of it though," he said, motioning to his bruised arms, "a lot of corners."

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"My legs kinda hurt, but I don't think so. It's not that bad, really."

She frowned. "Well, we can't just magically heal all this, but you should probably take it easy for a bit. Rest up. If it happens again, we'll have you see a doctor. There's meds that can help with sleepwalking."

Rising slowly from the table, he smiled. "Thanks, Mi, but I don't think that'll be necessary. I'm gonna try and get some rest, like you said."

Smiling softly, she nodded her approval; He was probably just tired, but rarely did either of the boys actually listen to her when she gave them advice. "I'll make you a sandwich and bring it up this afternoon, okay?"

"Oh, wait, we still have leftover Thai food- can you just reheat that for me?"

She smirked and she retorted, "the last time you ate Thai food, you sleepwalked and nearly concussed yourself."

"Oi, those are completely unrelated and you know it!"

The freckled skin of her nose crinkled as she laughed, and in response he gave her a grin. "Text me if you need anything?" She asked.

"Yeah, 'course."

Occasionally she overreacted when either of the boys were injured, but she still frowned as she observed the marks left on Ron. At least it seemed the damage was only minimal. Bruises, but no broken bones or anything too serious.

Still, it left her wondering what exactly had done that to him, and she couldn't help her (perhaps reckless) curiosity as she made her way to the basement door.

It was cracked open, she noticed, most likely from Ron, and the light from the hallway shined in through the door. It illuminated the stairs and the walls next to them, but nothing else.

There was no railing. Easy to fall down, probably. Nothing to stop you if you slip.

While the wooden floors in the rest of the house looked polished and pristine, the wood of these stairs looked noticeably less perfect. They weren't decaying, but there were scuff marks and it appeared to have been a bit neglected. Maybe Bellatrix hadn't cleaned down here much -Hermione certainly wouldn't hold it against her if that were the case.

Holding out her phone as a flashlight, she peered down into the darkness of the unfamiliar territory, made her first step down the stairs, heard the creak of the wood under her feet-

-And then remembered those bruises on Ron and turned right back around, slamming the door behind her.

 _You're a grown woman!_ She chastised herself, _you're being_ _ridiculous! It's just a basement! It's not like there's a monster hiding under the stairs to eat you... If there was, it would have already eaten Ron._

Still, she felt deeply reluctant force herself to go down there. _I'll check later, when someone else is with me,_ she decided, _no need to go investigating now._

* * *

Back in her room, she sat down on her bed and pulled out her laptop. According to both Lily's diary and Tom, there was more that has happened in this house than she was aware of.

Pulling up Google, she did the most obvious thing she could think of: typed in the address of the house and pressed "search".

It probably should have occurred to her that the first thing she'd be met with was a list of articles detailing the brutal slayings of James and Lily Potter, followed by grizzly crime scene photos.

For her own sake, Hermione decided she didn't need to read any of the articles about "The Boy Who Lived" or the murders of his parents, so she decided to filter her results to only articles dated pre 1999.

Her eyes landed on an article dated June 17, 1995.

It lead her to an obituary for a girl named Myrtle Warren, who had apparently committed suicide. It didn't specify where, but Hermione suspected it was in the house and that the death of this girl was what Lily had mentioned.

"Deeply loved", "always remembered", and "forever missed" were wonderful things to hear about the girl, but it was frustrating that it didn't contain much actual information.

Remembering Tom and his stupid mocking tone as he had said, " _James and Lily are just the tip of the iceberg, sweetheart"_ , she felt compelled to go back and click "next page", to keep looking.

And just as she did, her internet crashed.

"No, no, no!" She frantically repeated as her fingers pressed the "reconnect" button like her life depended on it.

She let out a frustrated groan and cursed the house they lived in for having such flakey Wi-Fi. The library would have public records(and hopefully reliable Wi-Fi), but that was over an hour drive and, as much as she loved the library, she really didn't feel like doing that today.

Still determined to be productive, she decided she wouldn't let a lack of internet stop her. In many ways, she had the best resources of all: the house itself, and Lily's diary.

Following that thought, she opened up the diary again and began to read the next entry.

 _April 18, 1999_

 _As promised, Albus came over for tea, and surprisingly enough, he brought his son this time. He hadn't even mentioned he had one before, so it was quite a surprise, but I welcomed him in anyways._ _The more the merrier, and all that._

 _The boy, Tom, was incredibly polite, but he didn't seem too interested in tea talk, so I told him he could explore the house if he wanted. It was a bit odd, actually, because even though I told him he could go wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted(even told him where the remote for the telly was), he mostly just watched._

 _By "watched" I don't mean the telly, I mean he stayed in the room with Albus and I but didn't do anything. Didn't so much as say a word unless I asked him something._

 _He kept looking to Albus with this weird look. Not like he was looking for reassurance, I don't think, but more like he wanted direction. I found it odd, but didn't say anything. It's not like he was hurting anyone._

 _And when I asked Albus about the girl who had lived here(morbid, I know, but I can't being curious), Myrtle, he just got up and left. As in, literally just walked out the door and didn't come back. I asked Albus if I had done something to upset him, but he assured me that I hadn't. Said Tom was always just a bit strange, and often sensitive._

 _He seemed more brooding than sensitive, but who am I to question the opinion of a father?_

 _Anyways, when I asked him about the girl, about what happened, he was quite sad, but he wasn't squeamish about it. He didn't actually tell me how she died, but I suppose the 'how' doesn't matter really. Suicide is always tragic._

 _Poor girl._

 _He told me she had been the niece of the old owner(the one who sold us the house), and that she'd been sent to stay with him because she had been having trouble back at her old school. Bullying, supposedly._

 _All seems very textbook, doesn't it? Bullied girl develops deep self esteem issues, kills self in response. I thought so, anyways. Still think so, it's just that then suddenly Albus mentioned the strangest little detail:_

 _She had been having nightmares, and started to sleepwalk._

 _And it's probably nothing, probably just coincidental, but James was sleepwalking last night. He's never done that before. Never in his life. But he woke up this morning in the basement, all banged up and bruised. After a bit of stumbling and feeling around on the walls, he eventually found a light switch and got back upstairs, but it's still completely bizarre._

 _I asked him what was down there, and he said it was just a bunch of old junk from the previous owners(by the looks of it -all of them. Have they never heard of Goodwill?). It's all a bunch of rubbish, according to James, but he still thinks it's best that we start locking the basement so Harry can't accidentally slip down there_ _and hurt himself._

 _I called Severus. He says he's going to stop by next week, and I told him to come when James is at work to avoid conflict. He works formally within the church now, so James has nothing to worry about(not that he ever did), and he wants to bless the house._

 _I'm not overly religious, but I don't see the harm in it._

Once again, Hermione shut the diary with a feeling of dread blooming in her chest.

Correlation doesn't equal causation, but she now knew for a fact that two people who had died here, both from unnatural causes, began sleepwalking shortly before their deaths. It wasn't much evidence, or really any honestly, but it was enough to make her nervous when remembering that the same thing was now happening to Ron.

Her mind was racing, attempting to make sense of what she had discovered. There had to be a logical explanation. There _always_ was a logical explanation, she just had to find it.

 _Probably coincidental_ , she thought, but didn't stop mulling it over in her head.

Three individuals with no history of sleepwalking move into a house and suddenly the symptoms appear. It could be coincidental, but, assuming it wasn't(even though it probably was), there had to be a cause. Either it was psychological, or it was environmental.

It didn't seem likely to be psychological. Stress could cause sleepwalking, but it could also cause a hell of a lot of other things, things that were more typical, more likely, that so far she hadn't seen happen. Granted, she had only been here two days, but that was certainly enough time for the sleepwalking to develop. No, she didn't think it was stress.

Ruling that out, she came to the conclusion that it had to be environmental. The most likely culprits for unexplained physical symptoms upon moving into a new home are carbon monoxide poisoning, a natural gas leak, or toxic mold.

Carbon monoxide poisoning usually causes headaches, chest pain, and fatigue. None of those fit with what had happened to Ron(or, as far as Hermione had been informed, James) who seemed to only have sleepwalking and somewhat unexplained injuries as symptoms.

A natural gas leak wouldn't cause those either, and regardless, there were houseplants in the home that hadn't died, nor had the appliances seemed to be affected.

That left mold as a possibility. Old homes often have water damage, leaving them susceptible to the development of mold, and this house was nearly a century old. Not only that, but mold _was_ known to cause neurological issues, sleep disturbances, and could make people bruise more easily, possibly explaining the marks.

It seemed highly unlikely(almost impossible) that it would cause symptoms this quickly, but it made more sense than any other alternative. At the very least, she could ask about it.

Bellatrix had mentioned that you needed to be careful about how you cleaned the house, lest you cause damage. Maybe whatever cleaning agents she had used weren't able to kill mold, or she had somehow missed finding it.

She'd have to ask her about it.

* * *

Around lunchtime, Hermione reheated some of the leftover Thai food and put it on to two plates, one for each of the boys. She hadn't seen Harry yet, but she knew by now that he woke up a lot faster and less grumpy when he was appeased with food.

After bringing Ron his plate, she stepped across the hall to knock on Harry's door. She was expecting to have to let herself in, but, to her surprise(the boy had always been a very late sleeper, not unlike Ron), he was already awake.

"Come in!"

She cracked the door open and stepped inside.

"I didn't see you this morning, but I thought I'd bring you some lunch and see how you're..." She trailed off as she saw Harry kneeling down on the floor across from dozens of crime scene photos, seemingly matching each one to its corresponding location within the room.

He had carefully placed each photo to align with the subject of the picture, crafting a visual retelling of the crime scene.

She knew the story: James and Lily had been sleeping soundly in their beds one night when someone came in and stabbed them to death, leaving no murder weapon and no trace of evidence behind.

James had died first, having slept closer to the door. He had been stabbed twice in the chest, but the fatal wound was a stab to his throat. He bled out before he could so much as sit up. His death had been almost peaceful, despite the violent nature of it. He hadn't had time to react or process what was happening.

Lily hadn't been so lucky.

Having been woken by the commotion, she attempted to flee, only to be tackled down and stabbed seven times, puncturing both her lungs and piercing her heart, as well as leaving lacerations along her arms and hands, indicating she attempted to fight back.

The photo of Lily had been placed in the center of the room, the photo of her blood splatter next to it, along with the picture of the defensive wounds placed just slightly below the others.

Harry had placed the photo of James on his pillow.

Hermione wasn't squeamish by any means, but this was sick.

She put the food down on the bedside table and swallowed, willing her voice not to waver. "Harry, what are you doing? We talked about this. You know you can't just-"

"I'm just checking, Mione."

"You're not just-"

As her voice began to crack, his voice began to raise. The green of his iris contrasted sharply to the bloodshot whites of his eyes. She wondered how much, or _if_ , he had slept last night.

"Drop it, Hermione. This is my house and you know why I'm here."

"Harry, I just think-"

"I said _'drop it',_ Hermione!"

She jumped back as he yelled. Harry had always had a temper, always been quick to anger, but usually not with her. He almost never yelled at her; Usually, if he was really that mad at her, he just ignored her until he got over it.

She chalked it up to stress and exhaustion. His mental state deteriorating had been something she had expected to deal with since he had been obsessing over this all summer.

"Harry," she said, voice soft and placating, as she began to step forward, "there's nothing wrong with wanting to connect with your family, but, like you said before, they bought this house so you could _live_ with them. Why don't we call Sirius, see if we can drive up next week, and get some old family photos."

 _The good kind, anyways_.

It would give her an opportunity to stop into town and pick up public records, too, _and_ it would force Harry out of the house. Thankfully, he didn't seem opposed to the idea.

Taking his head gently in her hands, she forced him to look up at her. "Let's focus on their lives, not their deaths. Yeah?"

"You know why I came here," he argued, but his voice was softer again, almost apologetic. He regretted snapping at her, she could tell.

"I know, I know, but, just for now. Okay? Let's settle in first," she coaxed as she reached to remove the photos from the floor in front of him.

He nodded.

* * *

After talking Harry into spending some time in front of the television(where he promptly passed out after about fifteen minutes, unsurprisingly), Hermione decided she needed some air and stepped outside.

The first thing she did was text Sirius.

 _Can we stop by for a visit next week? Tuesday, maybe? I want to get Harry out of the house for a bit. Any chance you have any old photos we can bring home?_

When she looked up, she noticed a familiar dark figure leaning against the fence of the front yard, cigarette smoke heavy in the air around him.

She approached him. "You'd better not leave your cigarette butt in my yard. I'd rather Crookshanks not ingest any toxic chemicals or indigestible material."

Tom turned his head towards her, acknowledging that he was being talked to. He arched a brow as he took a final drag, then dropped his cigarette onto the sidewalk and stepped on it. "Not in your yard, then."

It enraged he that he could look _like that_ , and still be such an arsehole. Defined cheekbones, sharp jaw, and pale skin that contrasted beautifully against his dark eyes and black hair. All of it wasted on such a maddening human being.

She was just about to tell him off, to lecture him about the environmental consequences of smoking(though, not the health ones; He could smoke himself into an early grave for all she cared) and of not properly disposing of cigarette filters, but her phone went off, distracting her.

Sirius had responded.

 _Yeah._

 _Pack Harry some extra clothes and a toothbrush when he's not looking. I'll try to convince him to spend the night. Maybe I'll be able to talk some sense into him._

She typed back _Thanks, he really needs it,_ and put her phone back in her pocket.

"I take it boy wonder is cracking already? That certainly didn't take long, did it?" Tom asked casually, and it occurred to Hermione that he had to have been looking over her shoulder while she was texting. She rolled her eyes. _Rude much?_

"You never mentioned that Albus is your father," she replied, ignoring his comment.

He scowled at her. "Foster father," he corrected, "allow me to assure you: there is no genetic relation."

Her response was a hum of acknowledgement, because there really wasn't much else to talk about and she didn't actually care. Though his hatred of the man was palpable, and that was curious, it wasn't actually her business.

"How much of the house have you explored?" She asked suddenly.

With a mocking tilt of his head, he asked in turn, "how much do you think?"

 _All of it, then._

"What's in the basement?"

"Why are you asking instead of looking? Scared of the dark, are you?"

Arms folding over her chest, she decided to ignore his second question. He was an arsehole, obviously, and he was baiting her, attempting to get a response. Having dealt with bullies before, she knew better than to feed into it.

"Lily used to keep it locked up," she said, intentionally not mentioning Ron or the sleepwalking, "and I wanted to know why. If that was anything dangerous down there, better you find it than me."

"That doesn't surprise me. Pity she couldn't lock away all the doorknobs; Seems those were dangerous to her son as well. Have you considered that he's just stupid, and that you have nothing to worry about if you're not equally prone to idiocy?"

"You didn't answer my question," she snapped.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he huffed a bit and then started walking up the sidewalk, turning through the fence and up towards the house.

Dumbfounded, Hermione called out, "um, what exactly do you think you're doing?"

"Answering your question -I'm assuming you want me to. Come along now, I'm not a bloody tour guide and I won't be offering again."

After a moment's hesitation, she complied. This was her only opportunity, he said, and she already knew she would rather go with someone else than alone.

She'd rather that someone be Ron or Harry, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Once they reached the stairs, he went first. Following only a step behind, she instinctively grabbed his shoulder. He stopped, and she felt the muscles of his back tense.

"Are you actually scared?"

"No," she replied defensively, removing her hand, "I just can't see the steps and I don't want to slip. But fine, you're in front of me, so if I fall I'll have _you_ to cushion my landing."

He didn't reply, but his hand reached out behind him and firmly gripped her wrist the rest of the way down the stairs.

"Last step," he warned her, and it seemed almost considerate before adding, "do you think you can handle that?"

Not that he could see, but she took the time to glare at him anyways.

"Stay there while I grab the lights," he told her, and only a moment later the room was illuminated by a few single lightbulbs hanging loosely from the ceiling.

James hadn't been exaggerating when he had said that this room was just a place all the old owners used to throw their old junk.

There were several boxes of books(that Hermione knew she'd go through later), broken pieces of furniture, old children's toys, and even a metal bird cage amongst the clutter. About a million different things Ron could have bruised himself on, she noted.

But, from her initial observations, no mold. Though the walls were covered in boxes and shelves, so she may just be unable to see it.

"Tom," she called out hesitantly, "you never saw any mold down here, did you?"

He had been standing a few feet behind her, tinkering with an old golden cup that had been on a shelf. "No. Why?"

"Ron," she said, too distracted to remember that she was intentionally not mentioning him, "hasn't been feeling well, and I thought the symptoms could possibly be explained by toxic mold. I was going to ask the housekeeper about it, but if you've seen the house too I thought maybe you'd have noticed something."

"It's highly unlikely to be toxic mold poisoning at this point unless he literally ate it, and, though it wouldn't shock me if he had, I'm afraid there's no mold here for him to eat. Also, don't bother asking Bella about it. She'll scrub this house until her hands are raw and bloody if she has to; There's no way she'd ever allow mold to grow."

If she had any hope left that he was capable of speaking without insulting someone, it was gone now; He hadn't even met Ron.

"You know Bellatrix?" She asked, ignoring his casual insults.

"She's been cleaning my house and washing my clothes for years. Of course I know her."

It hadn't occurred to Hermione that Bellatrix might work for other houses in the neighborhood, but it seemed likely that she would.

Rather than argue with him about the possibility of mold(she'd still ask Bellatrix later), she continued her exploration of the basement. Meandering through the various clutter, she rounded a corner(to the section behind the stairs, if her mental mapping was accurate) and stopped dead in her tracks.

A section of wall came out to somewhat form an archway, designating this informally as another room. Though it was less cluttered than the rest of the basement, this room made her blood run cold the moment she looked into it.

In the center of the room was a vintage medical examination table, made of cold, sinister looking steel.

Though perhaps it wasn't the material that was sinister looking, but the fact that this table had been built with restraints.

"Wanna play doctor?"

Hermione screamed, actually _screamed_ , and jumped away in shock, only to see Tom standing next to her, infuriating grin on his face. "Scared you," he said, as though startling a nervous woman was some great victory.

She shoved him in retaliation, only becoming more annoyed when he merely laughed in response.

"Shut up," she mumbled, cheeks turning a bit pink.

"I thought you wanted a tour guide?" He said as he began to stride towards the table, fingers reaching towards the little tray beside it.

She hadn't noticed that at first, too distracted by the steel contraption that looked way too much like a torture device for her comfort. The tray was made of the same sterile material as the table, but a thin layer of stained cloth covered the surface. Upon the cloth lay several small tools and instruments, some that she recognized(a scalpel, a syringe, scissors), some that she didn't, none that made her feel any less unnerved.

"Tom, what the fuck is all this?"

She swallowed. His hands had wrapped around the scalpel, which he was now idly twirling between his fingers. Noticing her discomfort, he smirked and dropped it.

"I did say this place was built by a doctor, if you haven't forgotten."

"I thought you meant like, family practice, surgeon in a hospital."

 _Not Frankenstein._

He shrugged. "He was, for a while."

"And now he's long dead, so he's not. Yeah, I get that, but it doesn't explain why he left this stuff in his basement. Is it even possible for this to be remotely sanitary?"

Tom leaned back against the wall, watching her as she stepped further into the room, cautiously investigating. "While I'm pleased to know you have a most basic understanding of both death and linear time, what I was actually referring to was that he lost his medical license. And, no, it generally wasn't sanitary, but the people who came to him were either desperate or unwilling so it didn't matter."

"Unwilling?"

"The work he did was at best unauthorized and at worst completely illegal. By the end he was more scientist than doctor, but for the right price he'd do just about anything asked of him."

"You make him sound like a whore," she mumbled. He chuckled in response, but didn't deny it.

A moment later she asked, "how do you know all this?"

"I read."

"I read too and I've never heard of any of this," she replied skeptically.

"I wouldn't expect to find anything of value in silly romance novels, so that doesn't surprise me."

"For your information," she snapped defensively, "I graduated top of my class, was even called 'the brightest of my age' by my professors, and when Harry no longer needs me I'm going to go back to school for a mechanical engineering degree. So don't think that just because I'm a girl, I can't comprehend things like math and science and history."

Their eyes locked briefly as she gave him a blazing glare and he cocked his head, much like that of a curious puppy.

"My apologies," he replied smoothly.

She looked away, glancing back to the room.

There was a desk in the corner that she walked over to, completely covered in old papers, handwriting so messy she couldn't quite read it at only a glance. She did, however, catch the name "Gellert Grindelwald" and mentally made a note to Google it later.

"So what happened to him?" She asked, doing her best to make it sound like an offhanded question. Her morbid curiosity couldn't be helped, but he didn't need to know that.

"He died. His wife killed him, then herself. And yes, it was in the house."

A disgusted grimace took over her expression. "He had a wife and she let him do this? Or did she kill him because she found out?"

"His wife was the one who found him a lot of his patients. She killed him when he began to care more about his science than his work."

A bit of mischief danced in his eyes, making her doubt the validity of his answer. That, and she didn't want to believe that so many people could be so depraved.

"Are you fucking with me?" She scoffed. "You're joking, aren't you?"

Pushing himself off the wall, he walked past her, dismissing himself. "You'll have to find out, won't you?"

* * *

When she searched the name "Gellert Grindelwald" later that night, she discovered, much to her dismay, that Tom hadn't been lying.

Again. This was twice now that she had wished he had been lying to her when he hadn't.

Once hailed as one of the greatest doctors of the era, Grindelwald had lost his medical license after it came out that he had been doing unethical human experiments on his patients.

He had done everything from intentionally using experimental drugs on them, to removing body parts, to even using them to develop new forms of torture.

Hermione shuddered as she wondered exactly how much of that had happened under the roof she herself was currently sleeping under.

A part of her wanted to go back to that basement and look through all the papers she found, _just to check_ , but she smothered that thought and pushed it down.

Within one of the articles, she found a book about famous people of Godric's Hollow referenced as a source. She requested it from the library, deciding that she'd check it out when she went with Harry to see Sirius next week.

* * *

Bellatrix arrived at promptly ten o'clock Monday morning, as promised. Though Hermione had been planning on asking her about the possibility of mold the entire weekend, any thoughts of doing so were wiped from her mind the moment she saw what the other woman was wearing.

She looked like she had walked straight off the set of a porno. Her uniform looked nearly identical to the "slutty maid" costumes Hermione had seen every Halloween, though Bella's admittedly looked less flimsy, less likely to tear at a moment's notice. Probably because it was supposed to actually be practical.

It did not look practical.

Her tits were barely covered and pushed up to her neck; Her skirt barely covered her arse, and the sheer stockings she wore didn't add much coverage either.

Hermione liked to think herself a feminist, that she didn't judge other women based on something as silly as their choices of clothes, but this was different, surely. And she wasn't judging, really, just concerned.

Bellatrix bent over to grab the cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink, exposing her-

"Bellatrix you really don't have to wear that. I know it's traditional, and maybe the company you work for requires it, but if you want to just wear your own clothes here that's fine." Hermione blushed, feeling scandalous just looking at the woman in front of her.

The woman straightened up and crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't work for a company, I work for the owners of the house. And why would I want to scrub floors in my own clothes?"

She crossed over to where Hermione was sitting at the kitchen island, her coffee long forgotten, and leaned forward, pushing up and further exposing her cleavage. "Does my outfit make you uncomfortable?" She arched a brow, challenging her.

Not wanting to back down from such a ridiculous challenge, Hermione refused to break eye contact. "I just don't want you to be uncomfortable. You don't have to wear that, if you don't want to. You can wear anything you want."

"Anything?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "Unless it inhibits your cleaning, I suppose."

A wicked grin crossed her face as she began cackling like a madwoman, standing up straight to begin wiping the counters down, starting with the ones by the stove. "Drink your coffee before it gets cold, dear. I can assure you I'm _very_ comfortable. Worry about your boys, not me."

 _Worry about your boys-_

And then she remembered Ron.

The sleepwalking had happened again, twice more now. Every single night they had been here. After the second time, she had given him some sleeping meds to see if it would help, but she still found him in the kitchen the following morning, exhausted and banged up. He still insisted it wasn't a big deal, but Hermione was worried he might seriously injure himself if it didn't stop.

Harry had seemed fine. Physically, anyways. She still had to keep him distracted so he didn't start playing house with pictures of his dead parents, but he wasn't getting sick or anything.

Neither was she, for that matter. Just Ron.

 _Still,_ she thought, _there's no harm in just asking._

"Bella, I was just wondering -do the cleaning products that you use kill mold? This is such an old house, and I know it kind of comes with the territory, so I just wanted to be sure that-"

Bella cut her off. "I would never let mold grow in this house."

Hermione pursed her lips. "I'm not doubting your cleaning abilities, it's just that-"

"There's no mold," she repeated, sounding slightly irate. "White vinegar kills over eighty percent of mold species, without damaging the wood floors. Seeing as I clean them regularly, it's highly unlikely anything would even have the chance to crop up, let alone grow enough to be noticeable. Though not impossible, I pride myself on being meticulous and I would have noticed it by now. There's no mold."

While Hermione wasn't personally sure of the accuracy of Bellatrix's claims, the house did look perfect and that was evidence. Bella had been working here a long time, and it was safe to assume she knew what she was doing. She still didn't have an explanation for Ron, though.

A moment later, Bella spoke again. "Why do you ask?"

Hesitant to respond, Hermione was quiet for a minute before answering.

"It's just my friend, he's been acting weird since we moved here. I thought maybe mold could explain it, even if that's unlikely. And, I know it is, but I wanted to check."

"Acting weird?"

"Sleepwalking," she clarified, "nothing else that I can tell, but he's never done it before."

"Is he waking up in the basement?"

"...How did you know that?"

Bella had finished scrubbing the counters and had moved to polishing the drawer handles. "Lock the basement door at night," she said, ignoring Hermione's question. "Lock the door to the basement at night, and it'll stop. If it doesn't, we can question my cleaning skills."

As if she thought it might drive home her point, she added, "it worked for the Potters."

Hermione, though not convinced, nodded and put her now empty coffee cup in the sink.

That night before bed, Hermione crept back downstairs, and flipped the lock on the basement door. She checked the doorknob; It rattled, confirming that it was indeed locked.

 _This is ridiculous_ , she thought to herself, but despite her skepticism, she followed through.

 _Just to prove a point_ , she told herself. Though, if it kept Ron from stumbling around down there, that would still be an improvement even if the sleepwalking didn't stop.

* * *

When she padded down to the kitchen the following morning, she expected to see Ron there, to make him another makeshift ice pack, to tell him about what Bella had said, and then invite him to go see Sirius with her and Harry later.

But he wasn't there.

 _Maybe he hasn't woken up yet_ , she thought, and after breakfast she checked the lock on the basement door. It was still just as locked and shut as she had left it.

Quietly stepping up to his bedroom door, she knocked. No response was given, so she pushed the door open softly and peered in.

He was snoring in his bed, appearing completely undisturbed.


	3. Independent Study

_Author's Note: "fag" is British slang for cigarettes, and in the context it's used in this, it's meant that way. Not as a slur for gay men, just FYI, don't freak out while reading._

* * *

Harry woke up Tuesday morning on his own, not wanting to have to deal with Hermione attempting to mother him any further.

It had only been a few days, and yet she was already seeming overbearing.

He understood she was concerned, and that she thought she was helping, but that didn't mean it wasn't annoying to have her constantly checking up on him and asking him if he was okay like he was about to fall apart at any moment.

She just didn't get it. Nor should she, having never lost her family.

It was still bloody annoying how she thought he was going crazy. A desire for justice wasn't madness. Determination and ambition weren't synonymous with insanity.

As they sat in the car, Hermione driving, himself in the passenger seat, and Ron in the back(sleeping, as usual), it was difficult to withhold his annoyance with her excessive questions and unsuccessful attempts at making small talk.

"You know, Sirius really has been missing you. Empty nest syndrome, or whatever, maybe. But, he really does love you."

This was a subtle comment meant to remind him that he didn't need to worry about his parents because his godfather loved him. He knew her well enough to know when she was trying to lecture him but also trying not to make it obvious.

As stated before: Hermione simply didn't get it.

"Yeah, I'm sure he is. We'll spend the day with him, and I promise I'll call him more."

The radio was playing, but it didn't make the silence between them any less uncomfortable.

"So," he started, both to diffuse the tension and change the subject in one question, "what have you been up to since we moved it?"

"Err," she paused, which was unusual for her, but he didn't think anything of it, "mostly just going through old books in the house. You know me, always reading. And with the library an hour away, and the Wi-Fi so flakey, all I really have access to are old books of your dad's. There's also some in the basement, but I haven't gone down there much. Not after Ron kept getting hurt down there, sleepwalking and all."

"Yeah, well, he seems fine now, doesn't he? Slept okay last night."

"...Yeah. Yeah he did."

Something about the way she said that, and the way her skin suddenly paled and eyes blinked a bit too fast, made him think something was up.

"Hermione, are you feeling alright? You look a little, I dunno, sick? Do you need me to drive instead?"

"No, no, I'm fine," she was quick to assure him, "really, I'm alright. Just didn't sleep too good last night, but I'm okay. Promise."

She gave him a weak smile.

"Uh huh, right," he said, eyeing her warily.

The rest of the ride to Grimmauld was spent in silence except for the music(and occasional static) of the radio and Ron's snoring from the backseat.

* * *

The trio had gone out for the day, so Bella saw no reason not to take an early smoke break. Taking off her rubber gloves, she stepped out the back door and wandered through the backyard until she reached the gazebo. Tom was already there, she noticed, so she plopped down right next to him, took out a fresh pack of cigarettes from her garter, and a lighter from her bra.

Repeatedly, she clicked the lighter as she held the cig between her lips, but only sparks came out. "Fuck it," she said, tossing the dead lighter over the railing, into the flowers that surrounded the gazebo.

She had always appreciated the lilies that had been planted there after the Potters died. Terribly romantic, even if it was a useless endeavor.

"Tommy, any chance you've got a lighter on you?"

"Not if you keep calling me 'Tommy', and not if you don't have a fag to spare."

Giving him a mock pout, she reopened her pack and pulled out another cigarette for him. In exchange, he handed her his white cigarette lighter.

She lit her cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled the smoke with a blissful expression on her face. Then she leaned over and planted a red painted kiss on his left cheek. "Thanks, Tommy."

"Fuck you." He used the bottom of his shirt to wipe away the mark.

Bella clicked her tongue a few times, chiding him theatrically. "Oh, quit being so dramatic. It's called affection, and it won't kill you."

He scoffed, then lit his own cigarette. She took another drag of hers.

"So," she said as she exhaled, "what do you think of our new tenants?"

"Which one?"

"All of them, but let's start with carrot top."

He nodded. "He's stupid and annoying."

Bella smirked in response. "That he is. I ran into him yesterday while I was cleaning and I thought he might come in his pants with the way he was staring at me. Literally dropped his phone right then and there. Too bad it didn't land on his foot." She took another drag. "What about scarface?"

"I think I expected him to be a bit more dull, though he's not by any means interesting. A bit like his father, though he lacks that same boldness. I must say, his obsession with dearly departed mummy and daddy is going to get old for his friends, I'm sure. I'm surprised it hasn't already."

She glared and intentionally blew her smoke into his face. "Devotion to one's family is an admirable trait."

"Sure, but I don't see how he's doing them any favors with it since they're dead," he retorted.

"And whose fault was that?"

He shot her a venomous glare, a look she'd become rather familiar with. It screamed 'stop talking or I'll make you'.

"Their own," he answered calmly.

There was no arguing there.

"You still haven't told me what you think about the girl," she replied, changing the subject.

His lips quirked upwards just slightly. "She's... intriguing, I suppose."

Bellatrix arched a brow. "Intriguing, huh?"

He shook his head. "Not like that. She's amusing when she's angry. And surprisingly intelligent, especially when compared to the company she keeps."

"'Amusing when she's angry'? And how often have you been making her angry? Torturing the poor thing for fun, are you?"

"Only every time I talk to her," he said with mock innocence. His expression then took on a mischievous smirk as he said, "and one time I fucked with her Wi-Fi just for the hell of it. Not my best work, could have been more creative, but it was amusing nonetheless. She's awfully dramatic, gets all huffy."

"That's all? No dead rabbits in her bed, no thumbtacks on her chairs?"

"She's amusing," he repeated, "no need to scare her when I can simply annoy the hell out of her and get equally entertaining results. Her whole face scrunches up, and her hair frizzes out even worse than usual. It's funny."

"So you think she's cute, is what you're saying?"

"I said no such thing."

"Uh, huh, sure... what else does she do that's 'amusing'?" The obvious innuendo wasn't lost on him.

"You're completely obsessed with sex, Bella. Stop projecting."

Having finished her cigarette, Bella crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I'll admit I agree with you there. The house has been empty for so long, I've been starting to get lonely. Maybe little miss know-it-all could help me out. Too bad she's got her kids though, such a waste."

"Kids?"

"Scarface and carrot top. Do try to keep up, love. Haven't you been watching them? Oh, don't deny it, I know you have. You all but just admitted to it. She's basically their mother and it's exhausting just to look at. She's gonna waste all her time keeping natural selection from running its course with those two. I think it's sad, don't you?"

"No," he replied, "if she keeps those two from dying on the premises, I'm grateful."

Bella nodded emphatically. "You and me both."

Being stuck with those two indefinitely would singlehandedly turn purgatory to hell, and despite her many questionable actions, Bella had no desire to go to hell.

* * *

They reached Grimmauld Place early in the afternoon; Sirius was already waiting for them. They didn't even have to knock before he had opened the door and pulled Harry into a tight, fatherly hug.

"It's good to see you, boy," he said, patting Harry on the back while his other arm kept a firm grip against him. A strong smell of alcohol radiated off of him, Harry noted.

'Empty nest syndrome', Hermione had said. Perhaps Sirius was drowning his sorrows in a bottle.

"It's good to see you too, Sirius. What have you been up to this last little while?"

He gave a very tight lipped smile before answering, "same old stuff, you know me. Got the tires changed on the bike, but that's about it."

As he motioned to invite them all in, Hermione politely interjected that she needed to stop by the library, but that she would be back after picking up her books.

Sirius shut the door behind her. "Now," he said, turning to Ron and Harry, both of which had already situated themselves on the couch. "Anyone hungry? How about I order a pizza? Or should I make it two?"

"Two sounds good," answered Ron immediately.

Sirius used an app on his phone to order the food and then sat down to join them.

Harry pretended not to notice all the empty beer bottles in the trash.

"So, you're out on your own for the first time," Sirius started, as though it weren't obvious where he was going with this, "how have things been for you? Are you adjusting alright? Sleeping okay? Not getting into any trouble?" he added with a wink.

"Nah, we've all been fine, honest. I mean, Ron was sleepwalking the first few nights but he was fine last night. We met a few of the neighbors, that was good. They're nice enough."

"Oh, we got a housekeeper," Ron added. "Her name's Bella and she actually wears the whole maid getup. I didn't think they did that anymore, kinda like how schoolgirls don't actually wear pigtails and plaid skirts, but apparently they do. It's super weird, but I don't think my room has ever been cleaner.."

"I remember Lily saying something about that too," Sirius replied with a grin, "went on a whole feminist rant about the objectification of women, fat load of good it did her when the girl insisted she _wanted_ to wear that. James told me all about it. Speaking of which," he said as he got up from his seat, "I believe you wanted family photos? I've got a whole book of them copied for you here. Hang them up, frame them throughout the house. It'll make that whole place look a little less dreary, make it feel more like home."

Harry smiled as he accepted the book, each page containing a plastic protected copy of a photo, "Thanks Sirius, definitely will do."

Once the pizza arrived, Sirius turned on the TV and left the two boys alone while he worked on his motorcycle, claiming it would only take a moment and he'd be in the garage if they needed anything.

Ron predictably ate himself into a food coma and passed out on the couch.

When Harry had been living here, Sirius had _always_ kept his office locked and shut. His brother, Regulus, had worked on the police force that had been assigned to the Potter homicide case, and Harry had long suspected that Sirius had kept stolen files about the murders. Sirius had still held a grudge against everyone who had ever slighted him in the least; It wouldn't be like him at all to just move on after his best mate was murdered.

That didn't change that he would never talk about it with Harry. He loved James and Lily dearly, that much was clear, but he adamantly refused to speak of their deaths with his godson, no matter how much Harry prodded and asked. Said it "wasn't the type of thing a boy should have to worry about".

Just the thought was enough to make Harry scoff. It wasn't as though he could just choose to not care that his parents, his family, had been ripped from him. That, and that "boy" in this context meant "offspring, regardless of age" because even as Harry was legally an adult, his godfather wouldn't budge on it.

That never stopped Harry from finding the crime scene photos online though.

Ron was asleep on the couch. Sirius was in the garage. _If_ Sirius had left his office unlocked, now would be the perfect time to check.

He didn't think twice before he started down the hallway, stepping quietly until he reached the door.

Checking the doorknob, he realized that it in fact was unlocked, and he snuck in without so much as looking back.

Sirius's office was, to put it nicely, a complete fucking wreck. There were papers strung out everywhere(some of which were so old that they were written back when he was in college), more beer bottles, old football trophies, books scattered seemingly everywhere _but_ the bookshelf, and much nearly everything but the computer and its immediate surroundings had a thin layer of dust on it.

That was potentially problematic. If what he was looking for was under any of the piles covered in dust, it would be obvious that he had distributed it when looking.

The literal ticking of the clock on the wall reminded him that he didn't exactly have much time to think or be careful about it.

So he didn't. Using the bold reckless he inherited from his father, he tore through the room as quickly as possible, discretion not making as much of a priority. With as much as Sirius had been drinking, he probably wouldn't notice anyways.

After sifting through the papers and finding nothing, he moved to the desk. The top drawer was mostly just a collection of pens, pencils, and rubber bands. He moved on.

The second drawer had an old yearbook from university. He moved past that drawer too.

When he opened the third and final drawer within the desk, he found it empty except for one thing: a flashdrive.

He took it.

* * *

After ensuring that Harry was being watched over by Sirius, Hermione made her expected trip to the library.

Of course, she first grabbed the book she had reserved, but then she continued looking.

She pulled every public record on the house, including a complete history of former owners, before she searched through the newspapers. Luckily for her, the library had electronically kept record of which papers contained which articles, so she didn't have to sort through every available paper from 1920 forward to find the information she needed.

Looking over the relevant headlines that came up with her searching made her shudder, but she took them nonetheless. Missing families, double suicides, murder, a family fleeing the home in the middle of the night -it seemed like there was a lot to go through.

For good measure, she also grabbed several books about the physiological effects of stress, as well as books on neurology and sleepwalking. If it wasn't mold causing Ron to sleepwalk, it had to be _something_ , and she was determined to figure it out.

Stuffing everything she could into the bookbag she brought, she left the library and headed back to Grimmauld.

Upon their return home late that night, they all went back to their respective rooms.

Hermione was exhausted, but she couldn't resist taking another peek at the diary; She'd check the books and records she got later, tomorrow, when she had a chance to thoroughly go through them.

 _April 23, 1999_

 _Severus doesn't like the house; James doesn't like Severus; and I don't like that the damn bathroom on the main floor keeps flooding. For no reason!_

 _I've had James check the pipes and faucet three times now, and that's not it. It starts with this weird banging noise(though sometimes it's more like wailing? really strange), and we keep going in and finding that the taps have literally been turned on, they're not just leaking. And it can't be Harry, because he can hardly walk, let alone reach up there to the sink._

 _James said he's going to disconnect the water from the bathroom if it happens again._

 _Anyways, Severus stopped by to bless the house. Sprinkled some holy water on it, ran through it with sage. The usual, and yes, it's exactly like what you see in exorcism movies._

 _I mean, without the dramatic music, obviously._

 _He says the house "feels unnatural". I told him he'd say that about any house James had lived in. He said to be careful, and to make sure we watch Harry._

 _I told him we already were._

Again Hermione shut the diary and went to sleep, this time without the heavy feeling of dread weighing down her chest.

* * *

Over the next week, she began sifting through everything she got from the public records, starting with every owner of the house.

She learned the house was built in 1923, by Gellert Grindelwald for his wife. After they died in 1938, it was bought by Nicolas and Pernelle Flamel and temporarily turned into a girl's school, until it closed down and went back on the market in 1952, where it was bought by the Longbottom family.

That's when things got strange, and gaps in the history began to form. There were long periods of time where the house was either empty or the ownership undocumented for one reason or another, and it all started getting blurry in 1952.

With a quick Google search, Hermione found that all three members of the Longbottom family -Frank, Alice, and their four year old son Neville- went missing very shortly after moving in, never to be seen again.

There was evidence that, in the absence of anyone staying there, the house was repeatedly broken into. The most likely culprits were Grindelwald fanatics, as allegedly a cult was formed around some of his more twisted ideas.

The house was eventually sold again, in 1965, to the McKinnon family. They fled the house after less than three months of living in it, claiming the house was possessed with dark magic, that it was the home of the devil, and they never even returned for their things. The youngest of the daughters, Marlene, had to be institutionalized less than a year after the incident causing them to leave.

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of that; All throughout history, religious people had a tendency to blame natural instances on supernatural causes. Natural disasters were a punishment from the gods rather than a natural product of the earth's complex workings; Mental illness was a sign of evil rather than an imbalance within the brain.

Grindelwald was a scientist -maybe whatever chemicals he used in his experiments left a lasting effect on the house, and had been slowly affecting all further inhabitants.

It was something to look into. If not mold, there still could be a logical explanation.

The next person to buy the house, five years later in 1970, was her very own neighbor, Albus Dumbledore, who owned it until 1994, when he sold it to a man named Horace Slughorn.

Hermione recognized the name. He was the uncle of the girl who died here, Myrtle, and he was the one who sold the house to the Potter family.

Mentally, Hermione made a note to stop by her neighbor's house later, to see if he'd be willing to talk about it. She remembered her first meeting with him, before they had even moved in.

 _"Not many can handle the responsibility that comes with the home."_

 _"Old houses come alive in ways many people don't understand. This one especially."_

Remembering his words, a bitter taste formed in her mouth.

Whatever was happening here, whatever was wrong with the house, he knew about it. He knew about it, and he didn't explain, and for all she knew they could be in actual danger.

While she initially had thought to ask him if he'd be willing to talk about it, she felt angrier now, more determined.

Whatever it was that he knew, she was going to confront him about it. If she had to threaten to sue him, or blackmail him, or _something_ , she would find a way to get answers.

* * *

She probably should have waited, or thought about it more before she marched up to the front door of her neighbor's house and banged as hard as she could, but she was impatient.

If she was going to have to blackmail him, she'd actually need to have something on him, leverage, of course, but-

She couldn't stop thinking about it. Hermione knew she most likely looked a damn mess, but after spending the night tossing and turning and ruminating on whether or not her neighbor was hiding some horrible secret that might get them killed, she decided she couldn't wait any longer.

As soon as the sun was up, she showered, grabbed the clothes she had set out the night before(which she was nearly positive were a red shirt and jeans, but in her distraction it seems she had actually grabbed a green sweater), and stomped out the door. For the first time since moving in, she broke her morning routine and skipped breakfast, too nauseated and worked up to eat it anyways.

At first, she rang the doorbell. When he did not immediately answer, she began to pound aggressively against the door, no concern whatsoever for manners.

After about two minutes, he opened the door. He was still wearing a sleep robe and pyjamas.

"When I first met you, before we moved in," she started, out of breath, uncaring if she sounded mad, and any concern for niceties out the window, "you said not everyone can handle the house. What did you mean?"

He smiled politely, and she swore that twinkle in his eye existed just to antagonize her, as her opened the door a bit wider and stepped aside. "Would you like to come in, Miss Granger?"

"No, I want answers."

He frowned, and again motioned to invite her inside. "Some answers are best received over tea."

A moment later, she found herself in his home, on his couch, while she waited for the tea to be ready. She had no intention of taking any, but if this was how he wanted to talk, _fine_. She wouldn't complain as long as she got her answers.

He returned with a tea tray and two cups. "Tea?" He asked.

She shook her head.

"I expected as much, but it's best to never assume."

He sat across from her, pouring his own tea.

"Why can't everyone handle the house?" She repeated her former question. "What's wrong with it? Are we in danger by living there?"

"There are many reasons one can't handle an old house: it may require excessive upkeep, for example. That house in particular has quite a history, and many people cannot stomach knowing of it. As for what's wrong with it? Nothing. Nothing is 'wrong' with it. It's simply different."

He took a sip of his tea before looking up again. "As for your last question: a man in a room full of knives is in no danger so long as he doesn't touch them."

"So you admit it's dangerous, then?"

"Every house can be dangerous. We only do the best we can."

Since he was being vague and cryptic, she came to the conclusion he was highly unlikely to outright answer her.

"Is there anything in the house that might be able to cause mind altering affects? Mold, a gas leak," she paused before firmly asking, "chemicals left over from Grindelwald's experiments?"

"Been doing some reading, have you?"

There was no need to state the obvious, so she stayed silent.

"Well, research and knowledge and questions are good things to have. To answer you, no, not that I know of."

"You used to live in the house," she said hesitantly, "why did you move out, only to move just across the street."

"It was expensive, but I do find it has a lovely garden."

The idea he would leave because it was expensive was plausible, but that he would move in directly across the street simply to look at the flowers? Unlikely.

Glancing around the room, she tried to formulate a plan, or think of a question he might give her a useful response to.

On the walls hung several photographs. In some of them, she recognized Tom. The ones of a sulky, dark haired boy were what she assumed was him as a child. One of them, taken at what looked like Tom's eighteenth birthday party, had Bella in it as well. She wasn't sure why she found that one so surprising.

Typical of what she knew of the man, he was glaring at the camera as he sat in front of a frosted cake with a large "18" shaped candle on it. Bella was smiling behind him, wearing a ridiculous party hat. An identical hat was placed on the table next to Tom; He probably had refused to wear it.

What she noticed next, however, was the background of the photo. She recognized the wallpaper. They were in the dining room of the house. Harry's house, her house -whatever, you wanted to call it, that's where they were.

Feeling her skin crawl, she averted her eyes from the photo.

Another photo featured that of a young teenage girl, with blonde hair and blue eyes that even in the photograph managed to twinkle much like her neighbor's. A relative, perhaps.

She turned back to Albus. "The man in the room full of knives, you said he's safe as long as he doesn't touch them. What can I do to be safe?"

He smiled again, eyes twinkling just a bit brighter. "You can be respectful of the property and keep an open mind. Don't shut your eyes simply because you don't like what is in front of you, Miss Granger."

As she was leaving, she swore she'd come back later and try again, and when she did she would be better prepared. She'd have more information, or a better idea of how to respond to his weird roundabout way of talking -she'd have something better.

* * *

Hermione had started to become suspicious that Harry was hiding something ever since they had gotten home from their visit to Grimmauld just over a week ago.

He stayed holed up in his room, barely eating, barely doing anything. Every time she went to check on him, he was on his computer, claiming to be reading.

When she asked him what, he'd always be vague. "News," he'd say, or "just Facebook."

But the manic look in his eyes told her that he was definitely onto something. She had seen it before when he had desperately tried to prove that Malfoy was smuggling drugs into the school and dealing them to his friends.

Even though he had turned out to be correct in that instance, it didn't mean this obsession was healthy. Ron didn't agree with her that he seemed to be acting odd. In fact, his exact words were "he's probably just been watching a lot of porn."

Hermione was not convinced that was the case.

Ever the investigator, she decided to ask someone else about it, to see if they had noticed anything odd: Bellatrix.

Bellatrix saw everything in the house as she cleaned every room, and if Harry had been hiding something, she likely would have seen it.

Or, if Ron was right, she'd likely have been picking up a lot of sticky tissues or washing more socks than usual.

"Bella," she began, approaching the woman as she was currently scrubbing at the floors, "I'm worried about Harry and I just wanted to ask if you've noticed anything odd, or strange, or disconcerting about him. Or maybe there's something in his room?"

Briefly, Bella stilled her scrubbing. "It's not my job to pry, nor is it my job to judge."

Hermione frowned, because even though that _was_ a fair answer, it wasn't exactly helpful.

"I know, it's just that I'm worried about him. I'm trying to take care of him."

"May I speak feely, madam?"

Hermione nodded her approval.

"You're prying into his life for no reason. He has found himself a sense of purpose, and you're not helping him by attempting to take that from him."

Hermione frowned. "It's not healthy for him to fixate on his parents' deaths when he could be out and living his life."

"He could be, yes, but he doesn't want to," Bella said, voice raising slowly, "You're not his mother. You're his friend, and you care for him deeply, which is very admirable. But you are still not his mother and it is not your job to try and protect him."

Hermione opened her mouth to object, but Bella was still talking.

"Furthermore, there is nothing wrong with what he is doing. I take it you've never lost your family, Miss Granger, so I expect you not to understand. But his loyalty, his devotion, is not a fault. If he wants to work himself to death trying to get justice for his parents, that is his choice. It is likely unhealthy, self destructive, and self sacrificial but it is _love_ , and you need to remember that."

Bella stopped her scrubbing completely, and she looked positively pained at the moment. Hermione couldn't help but feel guilty; She hadn't meant to upset her.

"Bella, I didn't mean to-"

"May I take my lunch break early, madam?" She looked up at Hermione, staring directly into her eyes.

There was a certain haunted quality to her face then, like she was remembering the most painful experience of her life, but overshadowing that was a fire that could only be recognized as defiant, furious anger.

It was intimidating, but, ever the curious creature, Hermione couldn't help but also be intrigued.

She still knew better than to rattle a hornets nest.

"Of course. Bella. Take as much time as you need."

* * *

After over an hour of waiting, Bella still hadn't come back and Hermione decided to go and look for her, to make sure she was alright.

She found her in the backyard, sitting on the steps of the gazebo, surrounded by cigarette butts Hermione knew for a fact hadn't been there that morning.

"I'll pick them up on my way back in, madam," Bella said, not even looking up. "I'll be back to work in a moment. I just needed a few minutes."

"It's alright, really," Hermione assured her. A moment later, perhaps out of guilt, she added, "do you mind if I join you?"

Bella made no verbal reply, but scooted over and made room for Hermione to sit next to her on the steps.

"Bella, I don't mean to intrude, but when we were talking back there it all seemed very," Hermione paused, trying to think of the most accurate word to use, "personal to you. I'm sorry if I upset you. It wasn't intentional, I just don't understand."

Bella leaned her head over onto Hermione shoulder, and she tried very hard not to go stiff under her surprisingly familiar and intimate touch. "I know you don't, love. I know you're doing the best you know how. But you can't -understand, that is- what it's like to lose your family, those very closest to you, until you've lost them. That's why you can't help him."

"Can you?" Hermione asked, so suddenly she surprised even herself, "if you've lost your family too, then can you understand? Can you help him?"

"'Fraid not, love. My situations quite a bit different than his."

"Oh. Well, in either case, I'm sorry for your loss."

Bella nudged her in the shoulder, again with the surprisingly sense of platonic intimacy, and said, "don't be. I don't miss them and they don't miss me. The one person I still care for, I see her once a year and I take money from my salary for my nephew's college fund(not that the rich little brat needs it, but I do my part)."

Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion, not understanding. "What do you mean? You just said you've lost them."

"I said I lost them, didn't say they're dead. I came her from London a while back, from a big family. Old money, and there was a lot expected of me. I always lived up to their expectations, did everything I was asked, until one day I said 'no'.

"You see, they wanted me to be involved in a political marriage. I was only sixteen, and still believed there was a way love was supposed to work. That wasn't it. So, I said 'no'. I said I'd take over the company on my own, do whatever I had to on my own, but I wouldn't throw myself into a loveless marriage. And they told me to get out."

Hermione gasped, and Bella squeezed her shoulders. "I know, I know! After everything I did for them, I said 'no' one time and 'poof!' banished. Exiled. Like I never existed!"

Her voice suddenly got quieter, yet harsher as she said the next bit. "And I almost, _almost_ , gave in, because I loved them. Because love is sacrifice and pain and, even if they didn't love me, I loved them. But then I saw my little sister, Narcissa, she was about five years younger than me, and I couldn't do it. She cried and cried and begged me to stay, to not leave her, but I couldn't. I couldn't let her think she had to live her life like that, couldn't teach her to let herself be 'loved' like that, so I said 'no', and left with only the clothes on my back and the money in my purse. Didn't even get to pack my bags."

A tear had fallen from the corner of her eye, but she simply wiped it away and lit another cigarette. Her expression hadn't changed a bit. "I'm fine though," she assured Hermione, "I've got a new family now, a family that loves me back. Albus and Tom took me in; That's why I'm a housekeeper now. They helped me out, kept me off the streets. And all that devotion, all that _loyalty_ , that I would have shown daddy's company is now given to the house. So," she said with a smirk and a gentle nudge, "you can trust I'd never let mold grow here."

Returning the familiarity, as unnatural as it felt, Hermione wrapped her arms around Bella's shoulders and held her in a reassuring hug.

She wasn't sure if this meant they were friends now, or if this was just a way of expressing solidarity with the painful experiences of another woman, but it felt better, nice, even, as Bella returned the gesture.

"Try not to worry too much about your friend. He's gonna be alright, I promise."

* * *

Hermione awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of something banging downstairs. As she got closer to the stairs, the noise got louder and more erratic, like a person throwing things rather than a mechanical problem.

Closer still, and she heard another sound: a soft, desperate moaning. It sounded inhuman, more like that of an injured animal.

Thinking it was Crookshanks, and that he was somehow hurt, she quickened her pace until she was practically running, down the hallway, following the sound towards the main floor bathroom. She didn't register that there was suddenly water under her feet as she approached the room.

The moaning had turned into more of a pained wail, an anguished cry, as she frantically opened the door.

The first thing her gaze met was the eyes of a teenage girl, with brown hair in pigtails and big, oval shaped glasses. Behind those glasses were bloody looking eyes, as though every capillary in them had burst, eyes so red distorted she couldn't even tell what color the irises were. Her skin looked deathly pale and slightly blue, but the worst part was that her mouth had been crudely sewn shut, rendering the poor girl incapable of making any noise beyond those pitiful howls.

Hermione, however, had no such restriction, and she thoughtlessly began to open her mouth to scream.

The door in front of her spontaneously slammed shut just as a hand came out to roughly cover her mouth. Too quickly for her to react, she felt her arms being painfully pinned behind her back, rendering her unable to push herself away from her attacker.

Every muscle in her felt both rigid and like it was being pumped with electricity, unable to move but unnatural to be still. Her heart beat like crazy, hammering away in her chest like a crazed animal trying to break free from a cage.

A warm tickle of breath grazed against the side of her face as she stood there, paralyzed by both her own fear and the limbs of the unknown person holding her.

"Don't move, and don't scream."


	4. Arrogance at its Finest

"Don't move, and don't scream."

Unable to ever turn off her mind, Hermione began to process every possible course of action, and every possible resolution. Even in her state of panic, she was aware of the potential consequences of her actions.

Her brain settled on one idea, one possibility that didn't end with anyone immediately dead, and she willed her body to run with it.

 _Bite him._

Pushing herself forward, ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulders from her limbs being held back at such an unnatural angle, she lunged into the hand at her mouth, unclenched her jaw, and prepared for the moment her teeth would make contact with flesh and bone.

But the moment her mouth opened, his hand had moved, reflexes almost inhuman in speed, to grip her jaw.

"I am _not_ going to hurt you," he hissed. Again, she froze, recalculating. "We are going to walk up to your room," he said, voice soft, like he was trying to soothe her, "we are going to walk away from here very quietly, and when we get to you room I will explain what just happened. Nod if you understand."

She nodded, unable to do much else. Her options were even more limited than before, and he had just said he wouldn't hurt her.

"Good girl. No one will be hurt as long as you're quiet and follow my directions. Now, start walking forward."

As if she were a mechanical being, mindlessly following whatever order was asked if of it, her feet began to move. Her attacker, whoever he was, still had a firm hold on the arms behind her back and his other hand had gone back to cover her mouth, this time gripping her jaw in place as well.

With each step, her mind processed what he had said.

Step. _He's not going to hurt me._

Step. _Unless I don't follow his orders._

Step. _He said he'll explain; That he'll give me answers._

With each step down the hallway, and each step up the stairs, her mind tried to rationalize and keep steady, keep sane, despite the adrenaline and the _fear_ coursing through her every vein.

When they reached her open bedroom door, he relinquished her limbs and pushed her face first into her bed. The door shut behind him and she heard the clicking of a lock.

Her first thought was that she was about to be raped.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated as though he had read her mind, and even if it were true, she couldn't stop herself from turning herself over as quickly as possible, arms coming up in front of her defensively as her eyes met-

"Tom?"

First, she felt shock, then confusion, then anger so intense it burned like fury, and all in less than half a second. "What the fuck? Why are you here? Why the bloody hell did you grab me like that and-"

"Be quiet," he ordered, "If you stop talking, I can explain."

Curiosity overpowering her desire to berate(and possibly hit) him, she stubbornly shut her mouth and looked at him expectantly.

"What you saw downstairs," he said, and Hermione shuddered at the memory of the girl with the stitched mouth, " _that_ , is why I'm here. That is what I'm studying."

His wording didn't skip her notice. _'That'_ , not _'she'_.

Her body trembled but she refused to cower, refused to hide in fear. Grindelwald had fanatics, she had read. A cult dedicated to recreating his experiments. Tom knew about the house, about Grindelwald's work. He repeatedly broke in.

Her mind was beginning to piece together a frightening picture.

"A helpless, injured, girl? That was a person, Tom! Christ-" she said with a disgusted grimace, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you actually a psychopath?"

His usually handsome features distorted as a sneer took over his face, "don't be daft! You're right, that _was_ a person. Not anymore."

"You don't get to decide that!" She shot back, "You don't just get to stitch her mouth shut, torture her, and decide she's not a person anymore! She's just a girl, Tom! Take her to a hospital, get her help!"

He scoffed. She clenched her fists, ready to strike if need be. "You really don't get it, do you? Okay, Hermione, tell me _all_ about how a hospital is going to magically revive a dead girl."

"She was crying, and she flooded the bathroom trying to draw attention to herself. She's not dead."

"Yes, yes, and no. Do you need to see her grave to believe it? You've already read her obituary."

And that's when it clicked.

 _Myrtle._

She paled.

"No-"

"This is getting quite tiring, okay? I would rather not talk in circles trying to convince you that the afterlife is real and that there are spirits in your house. If you refuse to believe despite the proof you've seen, then fine, but I would have hoped you'd be better than that. Refusal to believe something is possible simply because you cannot understand it is," he paused, thinking over his words, "arrogance at its finest."

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He was right. About the last bit, at least. It sounded insane and ridiculous, but she wouldn't deny the evidence until she could prove her case. For centuries, humans believed the earth was flat and the sun revolved around it. Until they had the science to prove it didn't.

Science was not made, it was discovered.

"So Myrtle is," she hesitated, the word feeling silly and juvenile on her tongue, "a ghost?"

"Ghost, spirit, specter, phantom, apparition- a bunch of words that all more or less mean the same thing. Yes. That is what Myrtle is."

Accepting the information, filing it away to be mentally analyzed, and possibly disputed, later, she nodded. "Why is she here?"

"She died in the house," he answered, and she opened her mouth to prompt him further, but he explained on his own, "this house, for whatever reason, it traps them. They get stuck. They die here, they stay here. No, I don't know why, and no, it doesn't happen everywhere. That's why I'm studying the house."

"Everyone?" She questioned, knowing he would understand what she meant.

 _James and Lily._

"Yes," he repeated, "everyone."

Her brow furrowed, and just to be sure, she tried to clarify her former question.

"James an-"

" _Everyone_ ," he said with finality.

"Where are they?" She questioned, unsure of whether or not she actually wanted to know, but too far gone to stop. _If_ all of this were true, she wanted -no, _needed_ \- to know everything.

He pursed his lips, looking at her curiously. "I don't know," he said, and then a moment later cautiously added, "I think they're hiding. I don't think they want Harry to know."

'In hiding' could mean a lot of things, so she mentally made a note to ask for further clarification later. No matter what it meant in specifics, the idea was logical. If Harry knew his parents were here, he would never leave. He'd do anything to stay with them. They wouldn't have wanted that for him.

Neither did Hermione.

That also meant that, for his sake, Hermione knew she could never tell another soul about what she saw. Harry _could not_ find out, no matter if this was real or if it wasn't, she couldn't let him ever get the idea into his head. He'd drive himself mad. No, she was certain no one could be told -not unless they already knew, anyways.

"Bella knows," she said, more to herself than to Tom.

"Correct."

"She told me the sleepwalking would stop if I locked the basement door. It did." She looked to him, mind attempting to fit the pieces together, "Why?"

Whereas before he had been leaning against the door, he smiled and moved over to the chair at her desk. "That's the Longbottoms," he told her, "they're confused. They don't understand what's going on, and they don't know how to get past a locked door."

"The Longbottoms?" She asked, disbelief heavy in her tone. "But they went missing in 1952."

He cocked a brow in response. She swallowed, understanding. "Not missing, then," _dead, killed,_

 _Murdered._

 _Stuck._

"Their son, they had a four year old son, what happened to him? Did he-"

She didn't finish her question. Saying it felt wrong, left a bad taste on her tongue.

"Yes, and he's here too." he said. "Though, his death was quick. Painless. It wasn't like his parents."

It was clear he added the second bit to make her more comfortable. It didn't work, but it was better than thinking of the alternative.

"Who killed them, and why? What happened to their bodies?"

His lips pressed into a thin line, as though he weren't sure of what to say. "The house can be dangerous," he started, not waiting for her to interrupt, "but if you are cautious, it is highly unlikely you will be harmed in any way. Not so much as a scratch. Don't provoke the spirits, and they won't feel the need to _retaliate_."

That wasn't a solid answer to her question, but it was enough to give her an idea of what happened. She shuddered at the thought of what exactly ' _retaliation'_ might look like to man like Grindelwald.

"What do we need to do?" She finally asked.

"Keep the basement door locked whenever you're not down there -the Longbottoms are only confused, they don't mean to hurt anyone, but they do. Don't give them the opportunity. I'd also suggest keeping your friends away from the main floor bathroom. Myrtle is bloody annoying, but harmless, although I still doubt you'd like your friends to be the ones to find her next time.

"No renovations. If you paint a wall, that's one thing, but if you even think about touching the wood or the windows, or any of the Tiffany light fixtures, there will be hell to pay. Hepzibah -Grindelwald's wife- spent years picking out the shades and materials that make this house. She won't tolerate having her hard work destroyed.

"And don't throw away anything that you are not absolutely positive belongs to either one of you three, or the Potters. If you follow all of that, there will be no reason for any of them to hurt you."

Three rules to follow:

1\. Keep the basement door locked

2\. No renovations

3\. Don't throw away anything that doesn't belong to you

That was all manageable, Hermione decided. Harry wouldn't want to renovate, and Ron wouldn't care. She'd come up with an excuse to keep them away from the bathroom -say the pipes were broken or something- and tell them not to go near it.

It was all very doable. Not pleasant, and she didn't appreciate having more to worry about, but it was manageable. She could do it.

But the part of her that couldn't open a book without reading it, the part that couldn't just accept things without reason, wasn't satisfied.

She suddenly felt very nervous about what she was about to ask, but it didn't stop her from asking.

"You know a lot about all this stuff," she stated, turning to Tom.

That wasn't her question. It wasn't even a question at all. She knew he knew more than she would ever find in a book, having spent years living and breathing to study this house and it's workings.

"Correct," he replied, his voice sounding almost like the purr of a cat.

"Will you teach me?"

With the way he smiled at her then, she couldn't help but remember stories of crossroads demons, and witches who sold their souls to the devil. Alluring and yet predatory all at once, like a siren call beckoning her into dangerous waters.

* * *

For the second time since moving into the house and the third time total in the last six months, Hermione broke her morning routine. This time, she slept in.

At first when she woke up, she thought it might have been some kind of bizarre dream or perhaps a stress induced nightmare, but she checked her phone and there was all the confirmation she needed that it had an been real.

She had a text from Tom.

 _Follow the rules. You'll be alright._

She nearly snorted as she realized that, for once, he hadn't insulted her. Maybe be didn't feel the need to bother with the passive aggression when writing(or, texting, in this case).

Before he had left, he told her to give him her phone.

 _"Why do you need my phone?" She asked, eyeing him suspiciously._

 _He rolled his eyes. "Hand it over and you'll see."_

 _Pulling the device from her pocket, she unlocked it and handed it over to him, keeping her eyes glued to the screen as she watched what he was doing._

 _He entered his own phone number, sent himself a text to give him hers, and then handed it back._

 _"I'll teach you everything I know about this place," he told her, "but it will take time. Should you see anything again and I'm not close by to keep you from having a heart attack or alerting your two idiots, it's safer you contact me than try to improvise on your own. I have no faith you can do that without making things irrevocably worse."_

 _She glared, but technically he was offering to help her so she didn't argue._ _She also wasn't sure she actually disagreed with him on that._

Checking the clock, she saw that she had slept in all the way past noon and immediately hauled herself out of bed. When she got downstairs, she was greeted by a snarling cat.

"I know, I know, I'm terribly late," she told Crookshanks as she tried to pacify him with a scratch behind the ears. He dodged her hand and continued growling his complaints. "I'm sorry, okay? I'll feed you extra to make up for it."

The cat followed alongside her as she approached the cupboard where she kept his food, continuing to audibly express his hunger and frustration. He didn't even let her put the bowl on the floor before he started chowing down.

"Awful dramatic, you are. You know that?" She told him as he finally allowed her to stroke the length of his spine.

"Hey, Mione, did you see the hallway this morning?" She turned around, seeing Ron standing in the doorway. "It was soaking wet, water covering the floors all the way to the stairs. Bella took care of it this morning, said something about a leaking pipe. Said to stay away from there. Didn't see you this morning, so I just thought I'd make sure you knew."

'Didn't see you this morning' -he was fully dressed, and she blushed thinking that for once she had actually slept in later than him.

"Yeah, I'll remember that. Thanks for warning me."

" s'no problem, Mione," he replied, typical lopsided grin in place.

She moved to tuck a stray curl behind her ear when the sound of shattering glass startled her, forcing her to flinch away in surprise.

Crookshanks had knocked a glass of water off the counter, covering the now wet floor in shards of broken glass. The cat, apparently done eating, jumped from the counter to the table and then out the door, completely avoiding the mess.

"Shite," she looked up from the floor, and saw Ron move towards the kitchen pantry. "Don't move, okay? You're not wearing shoes, and I don't want you to cut yourself."

He grabbed a broom before running over to her and beginning to carefully sweep the mess away from her feet.

Standing patiently, she waited as he swept up the glass from off the floor and then into the dustbin. The floor would have to be vacuumed later, given the nature of shattered glass, but for now she could at least walk across the floor without fearing needing stitches.

"I'll ask Bella to vacuum it when I see her," Ron spoke up again, "you remember that time George broke a glass, and after he swept up all the bits you told him to vacuum it but we didn't, and then later I stepped on a piece he missed."

Hermione smiled. "I do remember that. Nice to know that occasionally you do listen."

"Yeah, well, can't tune you out all the time." A jab to the ribs later and he added, "joking! Only joking."

Flashing him a halfhearted glare, she began to push past him when he reached out to touch her shoulder and stopped her short. "Sorry, I just wanted to know if you were busy later? Harry said he's doing something with those photos Sirius gave him, so if you weren't busy, we could head down to Hogsmeade or something? There's not much to do just in the house, and I dunno, I've been getting kind of restless."

"Restless?" She repeated flatly.

"Not like that," he quickly assured her, "that's not what I meant. I just mean we've been cooped up in here a lot."

"I was gonna stop by our neighbor's later," she replied, answering his earlier question, "ask him a few questions about the house."

"Right," he said, voice noticeably lackluster, bringing his hand up to scratch the back of his neck. "Guess I'll just call home then. See how Fred and George are doing. Maybe call Lavender. Have fun with your history lesson."

He hung his head a bit and left.

Once he was out of earshot, Hermione scoffed.

' _Restless'_

 _'Gonna call Lavender'_

 _But it's not like that, of course._

* * *

Since they had gotten back from Grimmauld, Harry had holed himself up in his room going over the files he found on the flash drive.

His initial hunch had been correct: these were the police files, containing information that hadn't ever been seen by the press, that hadn't managed to be leaked online.

While the crime scene photos and basic knowledge of what happened had been posted online and was fairly well known, very little of the actual investigation was ever made public.

That's what Harry looked into.

There wasn't much evidence, and there wasn't much to investigate. The one suspect they had briefly considered had been cleared, and he was only considered a suspect based on circumstantial evidence and possible motive. No proof.

Still, his name stood out to Harry because he had never heard it before.

Growing up, he knew he had been found after the murders by a "family friend". He had assumed, his entire life, that it was the man he had known as uncle Remus, because he could think of _no one_ else who would be considered a family friend.

In all the photos on Sirius' walls with his parents, it was always James, Lily, Remus, and Sirius. In the high school yearbooks, he saw they had been friends with a boy named Peter, but he saw no photos of them together afterwards.

But Remus hadn't been the one to find him.

According to the police files, it had been a man named Severus Snape.

The file didn't include much about him, but Harry could conduct further research privately if he needed to. The beauty of the internet was that you could find almost anything and almost anyone you wanted.

The man, Snape, had gone to school with Lily, grown up with her, and, apparently, had always hated James.

The next bit was what they decided was considered motive:

He had been in love with Lily, and was a considered a suspect based on the idea that he could have gone mad with jealousy. There being no evidence to confirm or dispute it, he was cleared and no charges were ever pressed.

Admittedly, it wasn't much to go on, but it was enough that Harry felt himself remotivated to search. He felt like, for the first time in his life, he might actually be able to make progress on the case. That it wouldn't just remain cold forever.

That his parents might get justice for what happened to them.

* * *

Hermione again found herself in the living room of Albus Dumbledore, waiting to be served tea. This time, though, she felt significantly more prepared.

She wasn't sure _why_ she felt the need to come back and tell him. It wasn't as though he had been particularly helpful the last time, and this time she didn't actually need him to tell her anything since Tom agreed to help her.

Maybe she didn't want help, and this was all about her pride. An attempt to show that she figured it out even without him telling her.

This time she accepted the tea.

"I met Myrtle," she blurted, unable to hold her tongue any longer.

"Ah," he replied with a nod, as though that simple statement explained everything. In this case, it probably did. "Unique young woman, isn't she?"

"She's dead," Hermione answered flatly.

The man nodded sympathetically, but to Hermione it looked rehearsed and shallow. "That she is," he replied.

Hermione took a sip of her tea. and without further response, the man across from her took a sip of his own. She had expected more of a reaction from him, honestly. He was calm -almost irrationally so. To any normal person, this would have meant something.

"Tom is helping teach me about the house," she said, and she noticed that he just barely paused while taking his sip of tea, _something_ flashing in his eyes before it was replaced by the usual twinkle.

It would seem obvious that he would care if it was _his_ son involved, _his_ son in danger.

"He gave me his cell phone number," she continued, "told me he'd be around to help me, but that if I saw anything or got scared again that I could call him and he'd help me."

Technically that wasn't exactly what he had said(he always had to be an asshole about everything, even when he was being nice), but she was paraphrasing. Same general idea.

"I must say, that it is quite out of character for him to be so considerate of another person," Albus replied, and she couldn't help but feel a bit strange about his response.

"That's quite a harsh thing to say about your own son," she said, and she was aware that perhaps it was rude to be so bold, but she had said it anyways.

"Tom is a lot of things, Miss Granger," the man across from her replied, as though he were trying to explain himself in response to her suspicion. "He is a boy of many talents, and is capable of a lot. But he is not kind, considerate, compassionate, or anything of the like. So, I do have to question why he would offer to help you if there is nothing in it for him."

It sounded almost like he was _sad_ , though she had no idea if that were the case or why. Once again her eyes wandered to the walls around her, to the photos upon them.

The faces of Tom, Bella, and the unknown blonde girl she noticed the last time she was here seemed to gaze back at her, and, once again, she found herself oddly unsettled by them.

"He gets access to the house by helping me," she argued, "if he's helping me, he has permission to be there and he doesn't have to worry about trespassing."

An amused look flickered over the man's face at her words, and she almost slapped herself as she realized how stupid that must have sounded. A boy, man, who had been breaking into that house for God knows how long, suddenly caring that now he's allowed to? Unlikely.

"Perhaps," Albus replied, though she knew he was only humoring her.

"Okay, well, then what do _you_ think the reason is?" She questioned irritably. "If you think he's so evil, then why do you think he's helping me?"

"I never said he was evil, I said that compassion is not a trait he possesses. I do not believe Tom capable of selflessness." He replied, and Hermione once again found herself stunned by the ease at which he seemed to say such things. Like it was an indisputable fact, not something to dwell on emotionally.

"And to answer your question," he continued, "I truly haven't the faintest idea why he would help you."

Her initial theory had been that the man's slight increase in reactivity was out of concern for his son -foster son, anyways, if that even makes a difference- but now she wasn't so sure that was the case. If it was out of character for Tom than he should seem surprised to hear he was helping her, making the concern she detected earlier seem out of place.

She wasn't sure how to explain it.

"He gave me instructions on how to keep myself and my friends safe in the house," she stated, deciding to change the subject. "He said that unless we provoke the spirits, we'll be fine. Is that true?"

Albus seemed to pause and take time to consider his answer, before replying, "in general, yes."

"In general?" She frowned.

"It's best you be careful not to become too attached to, or too involved in, that aspect of the house. To immerse yourself in such darkness is unnatural and unsafe. It will only lead to self destruction."

Hermione recalled the first time she had met Albus, and how she had brushed advise his comments as the ramblings of an old coot. He had been right, though, she remembered.

"What do you mean?" This time, she would ask instead of assume. Learning from your mistakes is vital to growth.

"I have an old friend, a colleague," he said, pouring himself another cup, "who used to do what she called mediumship. Spiritwork, that is. She used to say that earth was for the living, heaven for the dead, and that that house was for neither. When life is exposed to the rot of death, it can cause sickness and disease if not handled carefully."

She very nearly rolled her eyes. It's not like they were attempting necromancy just by way of living there.

"Well I can't just convince Harry to move out, and I won't abandon him in there," she argued, and, while it was true, she was also being given the opportunity to study the afterlife up close and personal, and she wouldn't have the opportunity to do so elsewhere. She couldn't deny how much that appealed to her.

"I'm sure you can't, but it's not only him you have to worry about. Yourself and your friend, Ronald, are just as close to all this as Harry."

Except that Ron was so unobservant he probably wouldn't notice if a spirit literally hit him over the head with a brick.

 _Or dragged him into a basement._

And she, well, she knew she could take care of herself.

"What do you suggest then? Should I burn some sage and ask nicely that the spirits leave us alone?"

"I suggest you be careful, and that you not allow the house to affect you any more than it has to. You're a bright girl, use more than just your head to make decisions. As for the sage: unrelated to the spirits, I find it does have a rather calming smell."

* * *

Harry took the photos that Sirius had given him, bought corresponding frames, and decided to hang them up inside the house.

Hermione had been telling him he was spending too much time in his room, so he made sure she was around to see him do it as he walked about the house comparing the photos to the rooms and then fixing them to the appropriate walls.

The photo of him on his first birthday, him in a high chair, his mother next to him feeding him bites of the cake, blue frosting all over his chin, went in the dining room.

The photo of him riding Snuffles, the big black dog Sirius used to have, around the living room went, again, where the photo was taken. Living room.

When he reached the photo of his parents sitting with him out on the gazebo, he walked towards the door leading to the back porch. Refusing to put the photo outside, he decided it would be best to leave it on the wall next to the window, so it still matched like all the others, reflecting the former life within the home.

But as he compared the photo to the sight in front of him, he noticed something was different.

In all the house, not so much as a chair had been moved without him having been the one to do so. Everything was exactly as it had been left when the house was locked away, left to Harry to inherit when he came of age.

But not this photo. The gazebo was still painted white, decorated with little fairy lights, and had seating all around the interior railing, but unlike the photo, there were flowers planted around it.

Lilies.

"Bella?" He called out, not removing his eyes from the scene.

"Hmm?" The housekeeper walked out from whichever room she had been cleaning, he hadn't kept track. He rarely noticed her anymore.

"Did my parents plant those lilies?"

There was no guarantee Bella would even know, especially given her age, but if she didn't he would ask her to redirect him to the previous housekeeper if need be. But, it would seem she did know.

"No, those got there after they died."

He had come to appreciate how blunt she was -none of that obnoxious, pity inducing "passed on", bullshite he'd come to despise. His parents were dead. They had been murdered. No need to sugarcoat it -it certainly didn't make it sweeter.

"Who planted them?"

"Dunno his name," she said, "I never talked to him. But he had black hair, big nose, and he only ever came to plant the lilies and leave, occasionally comes back to maintain them. He wasn't a usual visitor. You know how sometimes kids used to hang out here when the house was unoccupied, but-"

"If I showed you a picture, would you recognize him?"

She shrugged. He took that as positive affirmation.

Pulling out his phone, he pulled up one of the various files he had downloaded there, and then pulled up the picture he was looking for. He shoved the screen towards her.

"Yeah, that's him," she replied dismissively.

Severus Snape.

* * *

Tom stood out by the fence, waiting by the sidewalk of the house(his house, as he had come to think of it; Legal owners be damned) with a cigarette between his lips.

Though he hadn't texted and definitely hadn't called his former foster father, he expected Albus would walk out any minute to come and scold him for one thing or another. Probably the girl, this time.

As soon as he saw her cross the street and knock on the door to the other man's house, he knew he'd be hearing more than a few words about that.

So he pulled out his lighter, lit his cigarette, and waited.

It didn't take long.

"Evening, Tom," Albus said as he approached him. "I take it you've been waiting for me?"

"No," he lied, and it was a silly thing to bother lying about but telling his former foster father that he had been right about literally anything bordered on physically painful. "Just fancied a smoke in the front of the house this time. I don't give a fuck about what you do."

That was half a lie. He cared to the extent that the man could royally fuck up his life if he so decided, but cared very little on a personal level. The little that he did care was out of vindictive spite.

"How's Bella?" Albus asked.

"If you actually cared, you'd ask her yourself. So," he started, deliberately exhaling his smoke into the other man's face, "why is it that you're here?"

"I do care, Tom. I care about her a great deal. I also, however, have enough respect for the boundaries of the owners of the house not to go barging in." He sounded exasperated, slightly annoyed.

No one else would have noticed, but Tom had spent long enough provoking him to notice the miniscule reactions. A sigh, a twitch of a brow. To Albus Dumbledore, that may as well have been a yell.

As a child, Tom used to smash plates and burn pictures in an attempt to get that reaction out of him. The fact that he could now trigger it with no more than a few words and was quite satisfying.

"Oh, I know why you're here," he said in a tone of mock realization, "it's Hermione, isn't it? You know, the neighbor girl. Worried the house might see yet another tragic ending? Fall out a window, accidentally slip with a knife in her hand-"

The older man frowned. "Tom-"

"Well," Tom interjected, "sorry to disappoint you, but I have no intention of killing her, or letting her get killed, for that matter. Was that what this impromptu visit was all about? Can you _fuck off_ now?"

As usual, Albus ignored his hostility. "She says you're helping her. You gave her your phone number."

Briefly, Tom paused. None of that was a question, and even if it had been, he didn't have to dignify it with a response.

Still, he did. "And?"

"And I'd like to know why. It's uncharacteristic of you to be so willing to extend a hand to someone in need."

"Have you considered that it's best for all of us if the house is under the ownership of someone like her? That my amicability towards her is part of a mutually beneficial exchange?"

Another exasperated sigh. "Of course I've considered that Tom. I don't see why you're choosing now to care, or her to teach."

The first thought to come to him was _'she tried to bite me'_ , though of course that wasn't the reason he had decided to teach her. It was just the first thing she did to make him think she might truly be unique, or at the very least intriguing.

He remembered vividly the way he had managed to overpower her, to both silence and immobilize her. It was intentional that she had been left with very few options that would have had favorable outcomes for her. If she squirmed too much, he could break her wrist, or even her arm, easily. He could dislocate her shoulder. If she tried to scream, he could either harm anyone who came her rescue, or lower his hand just a smidge and wrap it around her throat.

He had her almost completely cornered, completely subdued, and yet she still had found a way to hurt him back.

If it hadn't been for the way he felt her jaw move, the twitch before the strike, she would have been successful.

Most people live in the world without taking any time to analyze, to process, the space around them. They react thoughtlessly, or they freeze. For a moment, he thought that Hermione had frozen too.

But then he felt that tick of her jaw against his hand, and she lunged forward like a predator, fighting through the pain of the way he still had an iron grip on her limbs.

No, it was clear to him that was not instinct, not impulse, though it was rather animalistic. She had processed it and come to the conclusion herself.

"She acknowledged that this was a subject I know much of, and she asked me to teach her. I merely agreed."

"Ah," Albus supplied, "So that's it? She's feeding your ego? Is Bella not doing enough for you anymore?"

Tom glared, and while the other man showed no response, he knew it didn't go unnoticed. "Bella is slavishly devoted, and while there's much to appreciate to that, it's not as," he smirked, " _stimulating_."

His word choice earned him a stern glare, but he didn't care. It's not like there was anything left for him to be so easily punished with.

"Leave her be, Tom; She's a nice girl."

 _A 'nice girl' who made a conscious, pragmatic decision to embed her fangs into a man's hand?_

"I didn't say otherwise, Albus."

He stomped his cigarette out on the ground and turned back towards the house. This conversation was over.


	5. The Boy in the Attic

_Author's Note: This is inspired by American Horror Story, and that in and of itself should be a warning for potentially disturbing content._

* * *

Coming from a big family, Ron rarely felt lonely or bored. He had always been surrounded by people, surrounded by noise. At the time, he had hated it, but since moving to the house with Harry and Hermione, he was almost beginning to miss it.

It was quiet. Occasionally he heard a banging sound(typical of old houses, he was told), or Crookshanks, or the creak of the floorboards, but for the most part it was unusually lacking in noise.

Harry spent all his time locked up in his room. Never wanted to go anywhere, and rarely wanted to do anything, 'cept occasionally he'd get away long enough that they could watch something on tv or play a video game. That didn't bother Ron much, because he knew what was going on. He was locking himself away, properly grieving his parents for the first time ever, and probably wanking now that he had the privacy to do so(Ron, for one, certainly related on that point).

Hermione wasn't so easy to figure out. She never had been, but he had been hoping that by living together, he'd get to understand her a bit better, though it didn't seem to be working.

He even tried to ask her out last week, but she didn't seem to realize that's what was going on and just proceeded to tell him she was going to have tea with their neighbor. She _never_ seemed to understand that's what he was doing, because he did it fairly regularly. Sure, he'd never say "will you go on a date with me?" but he'd ask her if she was busy, if she wanted to spend time together ...alone.

It probably wasn't enough, but he was, well, shy. Never shy to punch a deserving bloke in the face, but he found he was particularly awkward with girls. And Madame Rosemerta.

There had been exactly one time that he had successfully asked a girl out, and Lavender had been so head over heels for him he wasn't really sure if that counted towards judging his abilities with women.

When he had tried being straightforward with Fleur, the French exchange student they had when he was fourteen, he accidentally screamed at her in the process of asking her out. Pretty sure her frightened her, there, but he hadn't meant to. He just had no idea what he was doing.

But he had been _hoping_ to be able to make some progress with Hermione here. The problem was that she was never around. Which made no sense, anyways, because sure the house was big, but where the hell was she going off to? When he asked her where she was, she'd always say "studying", or "just reading", but he never actually _saw_ her do those things anymore. How was he supposed to learn how to ask out her without making an arse of himself now that he suddenly never saw her anymore?

With a frustrated groan, he began to miss the sleepwalking he had started doing when they first moved in. At least then he got to see her more.

* * *

Following the rules of the house became just another part of Hermione's daily regimen.

She had her morning routine. During the day, she would read, study, and sometimes spend time with Ron and Harry. At night, she checked the lock on the basement door and made sure the bathroom faucet was off to keep the ghosts(spirits, specters, whatever) from making any disruptions.

And, even as she did it, she told herself it was silly. That she was only being dramatic. But she did it anyways, and it seemed to be working.

For just a bit, she put her research on the history of the house on hold, because she wanted to learn as much as she could about the afterlife, hauntings, and everything else she had up until recently thought to be bullshit. With what she now knew, that was more important than a history lesson.

Unfortunately, she hadn't grabbed any books about the paranormal during her last trip to the library. In her defense, she hadn't thought she'd have needed them.

Starting online, she looked through a million different websites only to find a bunch of stories she was nearly positive were either fake or could be naturally explained. She regularly asked Tom about it, either through texts, or in person.

Though she still did her best to hide him when he came over, because she didn't want to give Harry the opportunity to interrogate him. Harry had been spending so much time in his room now though, it likely wouldn't be much of an issue.

" _There's a lot of cases where people claim the hauntings stopped after using sage or an exorcism. But you said that doesn't work?"_

" _That's because it doesn't, love. Those cases are either hoaxes, or they're poltergeist activity, not hauntings. The 'rituals' calm the person or people causing the activity, thus making it stop. It's nothing like what we have here."_

Tom also suggested she check through the information in the basement. Turns out, Grindelwald had a thing for studying necromancy, and even after his death his old books, journals, and files stayed hidden away within the house.

He written out all these crazy -completely batshit insane, really- ideas to overthrow the government, to create an army of zombies(or, as he called them, inferi). Quite frankly, it was disgusting, but her morbid curiosity kept her reading.

She had asked Tom if that might be why the house 'traps' spirits. He had said he didn't know, but that he strongly suspected that had something to do with it.

Throughout all the books, journals, and paper scraps she read, she learned a lot. Most 'haunted' locations were not like this one -the spirits could eventually leave on their own, if they resolved whatever was holding them back. This house was different.

One day while she was reading(and Tom was sifting through various piles of things left behind by old owners), she came across a term she had never seen before. Not online, not in books -nowhere but on the paper right in front of her.

"Tom?" She called out, looking up for him.

A moment later, he approached her wearing an intricately decorated, but hideous looking skull mask. "Hmmm?"

She made a noise of disgust. "Take that thing off! It's disgusting! You have no idea who else could have worn that. You- ugh, you could get a disease or something!"

Chuckling, he removed the mask. A mischievous glint played in his eyes. "You needed something?"

Previous revulsion forgotten, she remembered. "Yeah, actually- I was reading, and…" she flipped back open to the page, finding the word. "What's a horcrux? I've never seen the term before anywhere, even online."

"I'm sure you haven't," he replied smoothly. "It's not common knowledge. A horcrux is a soul that deliberately detached from its body to achieve immortality."

Her brows furrowed. "Detached from its body? You mean-"

"In what most people would think, 'died'. Yes."

She pressed her lips into a fine line. "Well, that's not very immortal, is it? Isn't dying the opposite of immortality?"

He shook his head. "You're thinking about it the wrong way. Whereas a ghost is dead, wandering the earth without purpose, without real reason, a horcrux is simply unattached to a body. It has reason, a purpose, attachment to the world, and therefore _life_ , forever."

Again, her brows furrowed and her lips turned down, trying to understand.

"So it's a sentient ghost?"

"No," he said quickly, dismissively. "While there are sentient ghosts, as in, they're aware of their existence as such, they still are just ghosts. Their attachment to the world is flimsy, barely tangible, and yet difficult to get rid of. A horcrux creates its attachment to the world, to life, itself."

Looking up at him, she still didn't understand completely. The idea made sense, sort of, but she didn't yet have a solid grasp on it. She'd need to study more, she decided.

"You'll understand it," he said as if he had read her mind, "if you only let go of your preconceived notions of life and death. I know you can. It's complex, but you're smart. You just need to be open-minded."

With that remark, he strode out of the basement while she continued to read. Never liking to be down there alone, she left shortly after he did and returned to her room until dinner.

* * *

Harry sat down at the breakfast table, where(as usual) Hermione was serving dinner. Though they did have a dining room, it was big enough for a whole dinner party and none of the three felt the need to use it for everyday meals.

"Hermione," Harry hesitantly started, not sure of what he could say without her going completely batty, "I think I found something about my parents. Something the police may have missed."

Hermione's hand momentarily froze while she reached for a serving of pasta, but she recovered quickly and deposited the noodles onto her plate.

"Oh?" She questioned.

Ron was so busy burying his face in his food that he probably wasn't even listening.

"Yeah, I uh," he scratched his neck, a nervous tick he was desperately trying to get rid of, "I found something about this guy. He was friends with my mum, and I think he might have something to do with it."

Hermione gave him a stern, skeptical look, but her voice remained calm. "Why?"

"You know how a 'family friend' found me the morning after my parents were killed?"

She nodded. "You told me a few years ago it was Remus. Did you ask him about it?"

"It wasn't Remus," he said, ignoring her question. "It was this guy named Snape."

Hermione stopped chewing for a second, processing the information, and took a sip of her water. "What are you thinking, then?"

"I think he killed them." He didn't care that he was being blunt. It was true. That is what he thought happened.

Hermione sighed, and let out an exasperated groan. "Harry, you cannot just assume that anyone who knew your parents killed them. That's not logical, that's not sane. You have no evidence other than that he was here and-"

"No, no, I do have evidence. He hated my dad, was in love with my mom, and," the pointed into the direction of the garden, "see the lilies outside? He planted those. I know he did because Bellatrix told me. He planted lilies after my mother, Lily, who he was in love with, died. He probably feels guilty for having killed her."

"Harry that's circumstantial, not solid proof!"

"No, Hermione! Even the police considered him a suspect!"

There was a cold, somewhat hostile silence between them until Hermione spoke again.

She was still, her voice practically dripping with suspicion, but eerily calm. "Harry, how do you know that?"

 _Fuck_.

"I, um…" he moved his hand to scratch his neck, but stopped himself short. He wouldn't give it away.

Hermione, suddenly becoming more stern, repeated, "Harry, how do you know that?"

He was silent, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't further convince her that he was crazy. Ron was watching the two of them, chewing his food much more quietly than usual as to not get involved.

" _Harry!"_ She was finally yelling now, and he knew he'd run out of time to come up with a lie.

"I went through the police files, okay? And yeah, they had next to nothing, but they had that. And they didn't even know about the lilies he planted after she died. I'm not the only one who thinks this is suspicious Hermione!"

"That's still circumstantial!" She hissed. "And what do you plan to do about it? All these years later, the police won't care. Are you planning to confront him? Walk up to his front door and say, 'hello, my name is Harry Potter. You killed my parents. Prepare to die.' You are always doing this! You latch onto anything even remotely suspicious you can find and let your mind run wild!"

"Hermione, this is different. Even my dad didn't like him-"

"Because he was in love with your mom. Of course James would be uncomfortable with their friendship. Your dad was probably jealous that your mom spent time with him even though she was aware of his feelings. That's _normal_ , Harry! And why would this guy kill his best friend?"

"People fuck over their best friends all the time. Why did Cho cheat on Cedric? Why did-"

"Okay, you know damn well that Cho cheated on Cedric with _you_ so don't even bring that up."

"Okay, first of all, I thought they had broken up. Not my fault. Also, that's not the point. My point is that he could have killed her and also loved her. He killed my dad too, after all. Jealousy. And the flowers are an apology. Guilt. I mean, he literally planted _lilies_ for fucks sake."

"And my point," Hermione retorted, voice carrying as much authority and finality as she could muster, "is that this narrative has been built entirely in your head without solid evidence."

"I'm going to find evidence, this is just the beginning. What I'm trying to tell you is I found a trail; I found something that could reopen the case!"

Before she could argue, he picked up his dishes and slammed them into the sink before storming out of the room.

* * *

After her rather unpleasant encounter with Harry, Hermione felt like she needed a break. No, not a break. A distraction. A good, solid, distraction.

Something to take her mind off the fury and anxiety she felt about Harry having gone digging through classified evidence to feed his morbid obsession.

She wanted to talk to someone -just about anyone but Harry, Ron, or her rather annoying, tea serving neighbor. Problem was, she was new here and didn't know hardly anyone.

Thinking of the only person she could, she pulled out her phone, pulled up Tom's number, and sent him a text.

 _Are you busy right now?_

Almost immediately after, her phone chimed again.

 _Not exactly... Why do you ask?_

Grinning as she looked at the message, she responded again.

 _I want to talk to you._

Another chime from her phone.

 _You already are._

She texted back. _In person? You can come up to my room, if you'd like. Or I can meet you somewhere else._

Hearing her phone chime again before she could even lock it, she was pleased to see he was a quick responder.

 _Give me ten minutes- I'll be there._

* * *

As Tom stepped into the living room, he was unpleasantly greeted by the sidekick of the trio.

"Uh, who are you?" Ron asked, voice laced with what was most likely intended to be concealed hostility.

"Tom Riddle," he replied smoothly. "And, so sorry to cut the introductions short, but I'm sure Hermione would be upset with me if I were even another minute late."

Not late at all, he was lying to test a theory. And by the looks of it, his initial impression had been right.

The ginger's face began to turn as red as his hair. Jealousy, perhaps? That made things much more interesting than usual.

"She did seem rather insistent that she wished to talk to me, so I really must be going now," he said, turning just slowly enough that he saw the man's fists clench and his jaw tense.

This was almost certainly going to be amusing.

As he turned to leave, he felt a hand firmly grip his shoulder. "If you do anything, and I mean _anything_ to hurt her, you'll be sorry."

Tom made no attempt to conceal his annoyance as he lifted the boy's sleeve and removed the hand from his person. "Trust me, Hermione does not need _you_ protecting her. And I have no intentions of doing anything but simply talking with her."

He turned away again, but not before he saw the boy's face turn beet red and distort with anger. He'd have loved to provoke him further, but unfortunately(or fortunately, depending on how he looked at it) he had other plans for the night.

* * *

Hermione looked up from her phone as she heard a knock on her door.

Tom strode in, shut the door behind him, and then leaned himself up against the wall. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, but, uh," she suddenly felt very unsure of what to tell him, because she didn't actually _need_ him for anything. But he was looking at her expectantly, and she needed to say _something_ , so, "I just had a difficult day, and I didn't want to talk to Ron or Harry, or call Bella during her time off. So, I thought, maybe if you weren't busy, we could do something. I don't know anyone around here and -I'm sorry if you thought I actually needed you for something important, it's just-"

He cut her off with an exasperated sigh and a roll of his eyes.

"Stop rambling," he ordered. "You're fine. You don't need to apologize for wanting to speak with me just because you're bored. If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be. Coincidentally, I'm bored as well. As much as an insufferable know-it-all as you are, I still find your company engaging. And, for the record, I wouldn't want to talk to weasel either."

She frowned, suddenly feeling defensive. "What's wrong with Ron?"

"He threatened me on my way up here," he stated with a slightly mischievous grin. "Not like he could do much, but it's still amusing. Seems to think I plan on defiling his precious mother."

Her face distorted with a scowl. "I'm _not_ his mother."

"And yet he expects you to pick up after him, help him the most basic of tasks, and you tend to his every little booboo like his personal nurse," he drawled.

"I care for the people important to me, and occasionally he needs help," she snapped defensively.

"Oh, do tell, why is he so important to you? What makes him worthy of your care? And who, Hermione, is helping you? Him?"

She opened her mouth to speak and then promptly shut it. Ron had helped her pick up the broken glass so she wouldn't get hurt, he punched Goyle in the face when they were sixteen and the boy had tried to grope her. He also fell asleep during her valedictorian speech, but-

No. She wouldn't let him get to her.

"Your silence is telling," Tom remarked, supreme smugness written all over his face.

"And your apparent inability to have a polite, normal conversation is also _telling_ ," she snarked.

"Excuse me?" He demanded, demeanor completely changing within only a second.

"Sorry, was I not clear enough? I think you're desperate for attention, so much so that you'll do anything you can to get a reaction. And I won't feed into it."

In less than a second he pushed himself off the wall, and stalked over to her. As he approached, closer and closer, she instinctively moved back, pushing her torso into the mattress. Before she could so much as think to react, he had crawled over her on the bed so she was staring directly into his grey eyes, caged by his body hovering above hers. He was so close; close enough that she could identify every fleck of silver and charcoal in his irises, close enough that she could see the dark limbal rings lining them. Her breathing began to quicken, the rapid rising and falling of her chest bringing her closer and closer, and yet still not touching.

She felt his breath on her skin as he spoke, but while normally breath was warm and damp, his felt strangely cold, like the chill of wind early in the morning.

Though much less pleasant and more unnatural feeling.

"Let me tell you something, little girl," he purred, voice deceptively, almost mockingly, soothing and gentle despite his aggressive demeanor, until suddenly it turned into a hostile hiss "you know _nothing_ about me."

She felt angry that a man would speak to her that way, that he would basically restrain her like that, and yet she felt a tingle of fear, of _excitement,_ a spark of what it felt like to be alive, buzzing through her veins.

Focusing on his face, she saw that he was looking at her curiously now. A fascinated glint in his eyes, a barely there quirk of his lips. She wished she could crawl into his head and understand, see what he saw, feel what he felt, think what he thought-

But then all of the sudden he backed away completely, leaving her cold and shivering in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Without breaking eye contact, he moved over to the chair she kept by her desk. "I believe you said you wished to talk?"

His voice was so calm, not serene like Albus, but completely unaffected. Like nothing that had just occurred between them had happened.

She nodded.

He rolled his eyes. "Well, get on with it then."

Unable to think of what else to say, she blurted the first thing that came to her mind.

"Why do you and Albus hate each other so much?" As she realized the boldness of her question, she averted her gaze and almost mumbled an apology.

His eyes widened a bit, and then suddenly he grinned.

"That obvious, huh?"

Blushing, she turned away.

"It's fine," he assured her. "He took me in when I was eleven. We never got on. He doesn't approve of my interests and hobbies, I don't approve of his insipid ambiguity, knitting, and need to photograph everything. He still likes to attempt to exert control over me and I ignore him. There's not much else to it."

She wasn't sure if she had expected any other answer, but it still seemed a bit strange, like it didn't quite fit.

She ignored the feeling.

"Do you still think of him as family?" She asked, remembering what Bella had said. "Bella said that after she left her family, you and Albus helped her out. That you're her family now."

"Bella can't function without someone to love, someone to sacrifice for. She was raised, built, to see family as her purpose. She has her quirks," he said, and she noticed the way his lips twitched into an almost affectionate smile, "and sometimes she's a bit much. But neither of us had a family, and she needed a person to devote herself to, so yes, you could say she's my family now."

"What about Albus? Is he not family?"

An expression of distaste formed on his face. "No, Albus is not family."

Unsure of how to respond to that, she stayed silent, hands clasped in her lap, until he spoke again.

"And what about your boys? You certainly mother them enough, but are they your _family_?"

It didn't escape her notice that he said the word 'family' with a bit of a grimace.

"We've been through a lot together," she answered, ignoring his ever present attitude, "and since my parents are currently refusing to speak to me, they're really the only family I have now."

She didn't mean for the last part to sound so sad and bitter, but she couldn't help it. Being upset about it was something she couldn't easily control.

As she saw Tom lean forward in interest, she began to regret having said anything at all.

"Your parents are refusing to speak with you?"

She huffed, folding her arms over her chest defensively. "I believe I just said that."

"Why?"

Warily, she eyed him. He didn't _seem_ like he was going to be a prick about it, but with him it was hard to know.

"I did something that deeply hurt their feelings. Not intentionally, of course, but it hurt them all the same. Dad won't even pick up the phone when I call. Mum is a bit kinder, but I can still hear in her voice that she's upset."

"What did you do?"

Though she felt hesitant to tell him, she decided she was just being paranoid.

"I left them to come here, with Harry. I still love them, so, so, much, but he needed me. They wanted me to stay with them, to go to a local college. I wasn't opposed to the idea, but…"

She trailed off, and her head turned.

"Harry needed you," he finished for her.

Looking forward again, she nodded.

"And your parents are angry that you didn't choose the path they laid out for you, that you refused to devote your life to what they wanted for you, that you decided to be your own person?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, I wouldn't say that-"

"Don't sugar coat it," he ordered harshly. "Whether they care about you or not, that is the case. Correct?"

Love for her parents battling the reality of the situation, she finally accepted the conclusion. She wet her lips. "Correct."

The word left a bitter taste on her tongue and a sick feeling in her stomach. Closing her eyes, she turned her head to look away, when suddenly she felt hands gently cupping her jaw.

Opening her eyes, she saw Tom's grey eyes looking into her own. She hadn't seen him move, hadn't felt the floor shift under him, hadn't heard the creak of the chair as he left it-

"Look at me," he ordered, though his tone was surprisingly soft, more gentle than she had heard it before. "They do not deserve you. They raised a person, not a puppet. _Never_ let anyone try to control you like that, good intentions or otherwise."

Grey irises meeting hazel, she noticed that he was searching her face, looking for understanding.

"You are better, you are stronger, and that is not something to be ashamed of or feel guilty for. They will never understand, and that is not your fault, nor is it your problem."

Part of her wanted to argue, to defend her parents, but it was overpowered by a sense of vindication as he eased her guilt. She also noted that this was the first, and perhaps the only, time he was speaking genuinely kindly to her. He had complimented her before, called her smart, but it felt more like he was stating a fact than giving her personal recognition.

She nodded, and he released her jaw.

"You're better than them, you know? Too good for all of them."

She wasn't sure who he meant by 'them', or what he meant by "good", but she didn't ask for clarification.

This time she didn't nod, just looked at him quizzically while he seemed to be analyzing her.

* * *

The following morning, Hermione felt her phone buzz while she was eating breakfast. Pulling it from her sleep shorts pocket, she saw she had a text from Tom.

 _Wanna meet another ghost?_

Nearly snorting into her cereal, she texted back.

 _Wasn't too impressed with the last one I met, so I think I'll pass._

Another buzz of her phone.

 _You'll like this one, I promise._

She texted back, a small smile playing on her lips.

 _Pinky swear?_

Another buzz, another reply.

 _What are you, five? Yes, fine. I "pinky swear"._

 _Meet me in the attic in about an hour._

She relocked her phone and set it down on the table next to her.

* * *

An hour later, she found him standing in the hallway next to the entrance to the attic. With a grin in place, he pulled a rope attached to the ceiling and a ladder dropped down, exposing the dark opening of the attic.

"I've never been up there," she said, staring into the darkness as though it were truly a void.

"Ladies first," he said, and motioned for her to begin climbing. Ignoring the feeling of dread in her gut, she began ascending upwards. On about her third step up, she wavered just slightly and-

She froze. "If you have any desire to keep your hand, you will promptly remove it from my arse."

He shifted his hold to her hip. "Would you rather I'd have let you fall?"

Her answer was 'no', but refusing to admit that, she stayed silent and continued to climb.

Once she reached the top, she pushed herself up and stepped in. The room was dark except for the light shining in through the few windows it had, and almost as cluttered as the basement.

She was greeted by the sight of a toy rocking horse, several ceramic sculptures of frogs, more boxes, and a large variety of broken furniture. On an old table with three legs(perhaps the fourth had snapped off), she found an old, broken locket.

Picking it up, she examined it. It was, to put it lightly, ugly, though it still looked quite expensive. The large necklace was bulky, and made of gold that looked like it had long since tarnished. Intricate engravings covered the border, and an array of emeralds spread over the front in a serpentine looking 'S' shape, most likely an initial.

The surface had been cracked, the gold dented and few of the stones missing, like someone had dropped(or perhaps smashed) it.

"That's mine," Tom said, taking it from her hands gently, the chain weaving through her fingers like the slithering scales of a snake until it returned to him. "It belonged to my mother. I keep it here to keep it safe."

"Sorry," Hermione apologized, "I didn't know. It just caught my eye."

He gingerly, like it were truly precious, put the locket into his pocket. "It's quite alright, but, if you recall, I did bring you up here for a reason."

With a mischievous grin, he knelt down to the ground and motioned for her to do the same. Hesitantly, she followed.

With humor in his voice, he called out, "I thought I heard a toad in here. I guess I must have been wrong."

Hermione looked at him like he had gone completely mad, until suddenly she heard a banging on the other side of the room where several boxes moved, and then-

"Ribbit, ribbit."

Her face turned white as she heard the obvious mimicking of the animal, and then another bang, this time closer.

Tom pulled her into him and whispered, "don't scare him off, he won't hurt you. I promise."

He released her as she nodded, and the thumping noises continued to grow closer. Out from behind an old armchair, she saw the face of a smiling little boy.

"Ribbit."

He hopped closer, like a frog.

 _No,_ she corrected herself, _he's pretending to be a toad, not a frog._

"Hermione," Tom said, running a soothing hand down her back, "I'd like you to meet Neville Longbottom."

The boy gave her a grin that displayed the gap where one of his front teeth had fallen out. His skin was pale and his lips slightly blue, but he looked much less frightening than Myrtle had.

"Hello Neville," she said, extending a hand. "My name is Hermione. It's wonderful to meet you."

He looked at her hand, but shook his head. "Toads don't shake hands. It's nice to meet you too, Hermione."

Smiling at the boy, she retracted her hand. "So sorry, my mistake. How silly of me to have forgotten such a thing."

The boy grinned wider and sat down on his bottom.

Hermione turned to Tom attempted to pull him closer so she could ask him if Neville knew what he was, since Tom _had_ mentioned that sentient ghosts exist, but Tom just shook his head. "Questions later. Not now."

She nodded, and they spent the next hour talking with the little boy, Tom occasionally smoothing his fingers over the surface of his locket.

When they had exited the attic, an unsettling thought occurred to Hermione and she turned to the man standing beside her.

Checking around to make sure neither of her roommates(for lack of a better word) could hear, she whispered, "hey, Tom -exactly how many uh, formerly living, are there in this place?"

He smugly grinned at her obvious reluctance to say the word 'ghosts', but didn't comment on it. "I know of the original owners, Gellert and Hepzibah, the Longbottoms, Myrtle, and the Potters."

"So, eight?"

"Your ability to do basic math is most satisfactory," he replied flatly.

Just as she was about to jab him in the ribs, Ron came down the hallway from up the stairs on the main floor. "Hey, 'Mione," he greeted, though noticeably more lacklustre than usual.

"Oh, Ron," she said, moving closer and pulling Tom with her, ignoring his glare. "This is-"

"Tom Riddle, yeah, I know. I've met him." He gave the other boy a cold glare, which Tom returned with a dismissive glance of his own. "I'll see you later then, right."

Hermione almost opened her mouth to call him back, to ask if he needed anything, but he proceeded to his room and slammed the door shut behind him.

"You had questions?"

Turning her head, she saw that Tom had directed his focus back to her.

"Yeah, right, but um," giving the hallway a quick glance, she pulled him along to her room. "One sec, not here."

Realizing where they were headed, Tom pulled himself out of her grip and walked through the door to her room, wasting no time plopping down onto _her_ bed.

She arched a brow. "Oh, so you're taking my bed now?"

"It's comfier, and it's certainly big enough for two people."

Giving him an icy glare, she sat in the desk chair. "In your dreams, Riddle."

"Oh trust me, love," he said, signature smirk forming, "my dreams would be a lot kinkier than that."

She rolled her eyes and ignored the way he began to chuckle at her. "I do have questions, you know," she reminded him.

"And I might have answers, but I have yet to hear you ask anything."

Leaning down onto her hand, she started. "Let's start with one: does Neville know he's dead?"

"No, he doesn't. Since he's a kid, and easily frightened, he doesn't come out much. He doesn't remember anything other than a 'kind old lady' reading him a bedtime story. As far as he's concerned, he woke up from a nap and has been playing toad up there ever since, completely unaware decades have passed."

"'Kind old lady?'"

"Hepzibah," he clarified, "not that Neville knows that. He doesn't remember much. When his parents died-"

"Were murdered, you mean."

" _Punished_ , yes- Hepzibah saw no reason to blame the child as well, so she took care of him for a while. But when people came investigating, she tucked him in, read him a story, and smothered him in his sleep. She didn't want to risk him being found and having any damage come to the house she built."

Hermione felt her chest constrict and her stomach turn at the thought of a child, a child she now knew with a name and a face and a favorite animal, being murdered, and for nothing. The life of an innocent boy meaning less to this woman than a house.

She looked up. "How do you know all this?"

"I know the history of the house, but, in this instance, I asked him. And, later, her, but regardless. Of all the spirits here, Neville was the first that I met."

"How did that happen? You said he doesn't come out much."

He grinned. "I did, but he trusts me. I didn't just interrogate him about what he was, especially since that would be pointless. I talked to him. Got to know him. I wouldn't say I _played_ with him, but I indulged in his little games for his sake."

Hermione blinked, but a smile began to form on her face. "That's… actually really sweet of you. Surprisingly kind, I mean."

He smirked. "Well, I _did_ tell you that you know nothing about me."

* * *

After retreating to his room, Ron thought a lot about what he wanted to do.

He thought about wanting to throttle that bloke, because suddenly Hermione's mysterious behavior made sense. She said she had been "studying", and now it turns out this guy is dragging her around.

' _Studying' -not bloody likely._

Ron was able to fit the pieces together.

He thought about when they were fifteen and Hermione dated Viktor Krum, and how he had been so jealous he lashed out at her.

Made her cry, he remembered. He hadn't meant to make her cry, it's just that the thought of her being with someone else made him angry and reckless.

He wouldn't do that again. And while he certainly didn't feel like an adult, he knew Hermione was much too mature for him to lash out at her like an angry teenager again. He'd have to talk to her calmly, rationally, like the adult he didn't feel like.

And then maybe he could have her. Even if he couldn't, there'd be no more beating around the bush or skirting around his feelings.

She deserved to know, after all. And if she got mad, so be it. It's not like he hadn't been trying before.

So he waited, in the kitchen, until dark. He knew Hermione always got a glass of water before bed, so she'd be in any minute now.

 _Unless she's with Tom_.

As his palms began to sweat and he could feel his face heat with jealousy, he banished the thought. He needed to be cool about it.

Just like he knew she would, she came padding in, wearing only her sleep shorts and a tank top. He could tell she wasn't wearing a bra. It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, but there were still certain ….reactions that occurred when in this situation.

He averted his eyes back to her face, back to her frizzy mess of hair. Getting a hard on right now would definitely make things worse.

As she took a sip of her water, some of it spilled down her chin, dripping into the dips of her collarbone, and then again, lower-

 _Focus!_

"'Mione?" He asked, forcing himself to look only at her face, just in case she got the wrong idea.

"Hmm?" She wiped her chin and rested a hand against the counter, shifting her weight.

"Are you and Tom, like, well, you know…?" He trailed off, ashamed that he couldn't even say the word 'together'.

For a second, she looked confused, but just as he prayed she'd understand so he wouldn't have to say it, her eyes widened, and she nearly choked. "No!" She said, "no, no, he's just helping me with the house. You remember how you said this place is practically ancient? You don't know the half of it. He's helping me learn the history of it."

Involuntarily, a grin crossed his face. Upon seeing it, she gave him an odd look.

"What? You're looking at me funny."

She wasn't with Tom. Not like that, not like he had feared. She was very, very quick to assure him of that. He still had a chance.

He felt his blood pumping, and he recognized the feeling, the same feeling he had before he did anything stupid and reckless, the same feeling he had when he punched Malfoy in the face for calling Hermione a cunt, the same feeling that told him it was now or never, that if he didn't move he'd lose his nerve.

Crossing over to where she was standing, he took her face within his hands, looked straight into those big, hazel doe eyes of hers, and said, fully aware of how breathless he sounded, "you really need to know," before he descended down and crashed his lips into hers.

Her mouth was still slightly damp from the water she had just drank, but he could still taste her lips and skin. Exactly as he had been imagining since he was fifteen, she tasted clean, like the dentist's daughter she was, and yet slightly sweet at the same time.

It was perfect, all of it, until she started screaming.

The kiss was interrupted when the harsh bang of the breakfast table flipping over caused Hermione to shriek in surprise, the noise sending vibrations across his lips. They both pulled away panting, wide eyed, and startled, staring at the offending furniture.

"What the fuck was that?" She asked, breathless, lips swollen and bruised.

"Crookshanks?" He answered, not entirely sure himself, and hoping that she meant the table spontaneously flipping and not the kiss.

Hermione looked skeptical, but she nodded. "Yeah, I just," she paused, frowning, "I didn't see him. But I'm sure you're right."

She took another, closer look at the table before she left the kitchen, practically sprinting back to her room.

Ron shot the furniture a glare, mentally blaming it for ruining the moment, as he picked it back up and put it back. There didn't seem to be any damage.

He thought about going back upstairs and finding Hermione, finishing what he had started, but now the mood was gone. He'd just end up being awkward and fuck it up.

Again.

"Stupid bloody cat," he grumbled to himself as he headed back to his bedroom.

* * *

"I mean, did you _see_ them?"

Tom was seething, pacing back and forth throughout the basement, while Bellatrix had sprawled out over Grindelwald's examination table.

"Yup. Took him long enough. I mean, it's obvious he's been pining after her. And she just stood there like a deer in the headlights. Do you think he even noticed? I bet he got all sweaty, the nervous ones usually do. They get all sweaty and shaky and gross."

Ignoring her question, and everything else she had said, Tom continued. "How the actual fuck am I supposed to teach her when she's looking at him like a love sick kitten and he's slobbering all over her? He's distracting her, and regardless, he's not even good enough for her! I'm surprised he can even spell his own name, let alone figure out how to-"

"You seem to be feeling awfully strongly about this, Tommy," Bella remarked.

"It may have escaped your notice, Bellatrix, but having her learn is what's best for _all_ of us. Of course her wellbeing matters now," he hissed.

"If you say so."

Silently, Tom thought over a million plans in his head to fix the problem, until he came to one he was near positive would work.

"Bella," he said calmly, newly reassured with his plan, "I think one of our guests has overstayed his welcome. How would you like to have a little bit of extra fun with him?"

Excitement began to dance in her eyes. "What kind of fun?"

Walking over to the box he knew held what he had in mind, he pulled out and held up the skull mask. "One for each of us," he said.

Bella grinned, sadistic and predatory.

As Tom left the basement, he made sure to flick the lock on the door, the only thing preventing the "sleepwalking".

Oh, tonight would definitely be fun.

* * *

Tom and Bella waited patiently in the basement, going through all of Grindelwald's old files, old notes on experiments, and all his old toys. At this point, almost any idea was fair game.

He made the rules very, very clear to Bella. First and foremost: nothing fatal or too obviously disfiguring. The masks were never to come off, nor were they to ever use each other's names. Anonymity was important.

When the unconscious boy walked himself down the stairs, assisted by the ghostly guidance of Frank and Alice Longbottom, Tom motioned to Bella to put her mask on.

The game was about to begin.

Once the boy was strapped into the examination table, Tom shooed the Longbottoms away. He didn't want any interruptions.

Turning to Bella, he ordered, "wake him up."

With a giggle worthy of a schoolgirl, she reached for a bucket of water and dumped it over his head. The boy awakened with a startled gasp, and began to thrash against his restraints.

"That's not gonna help you, silly, silly, boy," Bella cooed, running a fingernail over the exposed skin of his inner arm. "We made sure they're nice and secure. You're here until we're done playing."

The boy's face had turned white, and he began to mumble incoherent pleas and questions. It was to be expected, but it was still annoying. Not to mention, it would only get worse once they actually started. Tom turned to Bella again.

"Gag him."

Grabbing an old rag off a desk, Bella shoved it into his mouth and once again began trailing her nails along his skin, this time, his cheek.

"Poor, poor, baby," she said, and despite the mask obscuring her face, Tom could tell she was dramatically pouting like a puppy dog. All part of her act, as she liked to play with her food.

"Now let's see what we have here," Tom said as he pulled the steel tray closer, deliberately making the various medical instruments knock and rattle, knowing it would scare the boy shitless. "Scalpel, that could definitely come in handy. Tweezers, forceps, syringe- all useful."

Not that anyone could see through the mask, but he began to grin as the restrained boy started to shake in fear.

"Ah, but I think I have a better idea."

He moved over to one of the shelves, and pulled out a glass jar. "This," he said, holding it up so both the boy and Bella could see, "is an acid designed by Grindelwald himself. Used it for some of his more frustrating _patients_. Care to see what it does?"

The boy began to shake his head frantically, as Bella toyed with a rather menacing looking scalpel.

"Perhaps we could play together?" She asked innocently, and he nodded.

"Excellent idea."

Together, they went to work.

Using the scissors so kindly provided by Grindelwald, Tom cut open the boy's shirt, exposing his skin, and examined the canvas he had to work with.

He turned to Bella. "Let's begin."

An hour later, the boy's face was covered in tears, and the rag in his mouth had become damp from all the drooling, spitting, and sobbing.

His chest was littered with bruises, chemical burns, and lacerations. The thought to put the acid _in_ the wounds had been Bella's idea, and Tom had to say he was quite pleased with the results.

Just as Bella began to make another cut, Tom held out a hand to stop her and turned to Ronald.

He towered over his face and calmly asked, "are you ready for it to stop now?"

The boy, still sobbing, nodded, and even through the gag Tom knew he was pleading.

"I have a deal I'd like to make with you," he said as he pressed a finger into one of the many burns covering the boy's chest. "I'll let you go, but I have conditions. Would you like to hear them?"

Wide eyed and unable to speak, he nodded again.

"I will let you go, but only if you leave this house and never come back. You will text or call your friend Harry once you are gone, and explain that you made a horrible mistake coming here. Maybe mention that silly little bint Lavender.

"You will _not,_ " he said, pressing more firmly into the wound and reveling in the pained whimpers he received, "contact Hermione Granger ever again. You will not speak to her, or call her, or write or text or email her. You will block her number."

He moved back. "If you agree to all of this, I will show mercy and let you go. If not, you will stay here, with us, for as long as we like until we leave you down here, abandoned to die, alone and in pain. We will not listen to any pleas for mercy, or for death. If you lie, we will find you.

"Your name is Ronald Weasley, and you're the second youngest child. We can find your family as well. If you follow my terms, you will be safe, and no harm will come to you or to anyone else by our hands. Is that understood?"

Bella ran a hand down the side of his cheek as he nodded.

"Do you agree to the conditions?"

Another emphatic nod.

"Keep quiet until you are out of the house."

Immediately, Tom and Bella undid the restraints and removed the gag.

"Run," Tom ordered him.

The boy didn't need to be told twice.

As he hastily drove away, barely taking time to pack his things, Tom and Bella finally removed their masks.

"Pfft," Bella huffed. "Such a coward."

"Indeed," Tom agreed.

"You see that, what he just did," she said, pulling out a cigarette and offering one to Tom as well, "that's not love. If he really loved her, he'd have been happy to suffer for her."


	6. Witchcraft, Really?

_Author's Note: I live for reviews and they really do help me update more quickly and overcome writer's block. Specifically, tell me what your favorite part was, what you'd like to see more of, etc. Those are the most helpful. Thank you so much to all of you, I really appreciate all the support._

* * *

Harry awoke to the sound of his phone going off. He pulled a pillow over his head and ignored it, deciding to let it go to voicemail.

As soon as it stopped, it began to ring again. Another call.

Checking the windows, he saw it was still dark. Who the bloody fuck would be calling right now?

With a frustrated groan, he rolled over, checked the screen, and saw "Ron" flashing with an incoming call notice.

"What the fuck, mate? You couldn't just walk across the hall? Do you even know-"

"Harry, I'm gone. I'm not staying in that bloody house any longer. I took the car, I'm headed to Sirius'. You can come get it later, but I'm not going back there. I'll probably go stay with Lavender for a bit, but, uh. No, I just can't."

Suddenly feeling much more awake, Harry sat up and reached for his glasses. "Ron, what's happened? Wait -are you driving? Don't tell me you're driving right now. You know Hermione will kill you for using your phone behind the wheel. And what about Lavender? You haven't seen her in a year, why would you go stay with her n-"

He heard the click on the other line. Ron hung up.

He leaned back into bed, tossed his glasses haphazardly back onto the nightstand, and pressed his hands against his eyes until he saw stars.

"Honestly, Ron," he grumbled to himself, "what the fuck."

* * *

Ron felt like he was on autopilot as he drove away from the house as quickly as possible. The whole thing had felt distorted, unreal, and like a really bad trip.

But every time he thought he had imagined it, that he was just hallucinating, he'd feel the sharp pain of the wounds inflicted, marks left as evidence. Some of them were still open, bleeding through the shirt he had thrown on in his haste to get away.

He had already pulled over twice to retch and dry heave.

Something was very, very wrong.

His first thought had been to go home, back to the burrow, but the more he thought about it, the more he knew he couldn't do that.

Harry and Hermione were still there. He had left them _alone_ , completely unaware.

He had already called Harry, and he knew he must have sounded like a bloody lunatic, but he couldn't help it. Not when he could still feel the burning pain, not when he could still remember the way those fucking masks looked.

And they, whoever the fuck those people were, had threatened his family.

Knowing he couldn't go back, he still refused to be useless. He couldn't just leave them there. There had to be a way to work around it, something that wouldn't provoke whatever demon or sadistic god he had somehow pissed off.

In theory, he could always call the police, but he knew how that would turn out. They'd think he was crazy, but they'd check on it anyways. And when they found nothing, he'd look like an idiot and Harry and Hermione would know about what happened and _also_ think he was an idiot(especially Hermione).

Those people who had threatened his family would probably know too, and he could only hope they were bluffing. Picturing Ginny is what solidified it in his mind: no cops.

Sold on the only plan he had left, he turned the radio up to drown out all his thoughts and continued his drive to Grimmauld Place.

* * *

When Harry woke up officially, he checked his phone to make sure he hadn't just imagined Ron calling him, spewing a bunch of gibberish like a madman, and then hanging up. Much to his dismay, his call log indicated that that really had happened.

To further confirm, he saw that Ron's room had been tossed over, all the important belongings taken, and that the car was gone(so much for grocery shopping, until they got it back).

Exasperated, he ran a hand over his face and turned back to the hallway, shutting the door behind him. Hermione would not be pleased to see the room in that much disarray now that they had a maid to clean up.

"Why do we need to clean when we literally hired someone for that purpose already?" Was an argument he did _not_ want to have again -Mione could get scary when she was mad.

Ron would come back. He knew he would. He probably just woke up from a nightmare, got freaked out, and impulsively left -like that time he found a spider above his bed when they were fourteen and he slept in a sleeping bag in the backyard for two days.

Hermione might not even notice, with how much she had been sticking to herself lately.

"Harry?"

 _Well, so much for that_.

"Oh, there you are," Hermione came out from around the corner, carrying Crookshanks in her arms as the beast nuzzled and purred contentedly, "I thought maybe you had gone too. The car isn't here, so, I thought maybe you guys left without telling me."

He shook his head. "No, just Ron."

"Well where did he go? I've been meaning to talk to him."

"He, uh…"

"Harry, what's wrong? Did something happen?"

"No, no, it's not that. It's just -remember that time he found a spider and and freaked out, wouldn't come inside for two days? I think it's like that. He called me at like four in the bloody morning, screaming nonsense about how he was leaving."

Hermione shifted her hold on the cat, and her expression morphed into one of concern. "'Leaving'? Well where is he going? He couldn't have just driven all the way home last night. The burrow is hours away."

"Dunno, for sure. He said he was going to see Sirius first, then something about Lavender. He was really out of it, 'Mione. Sounded completely mental."

Her lips pressed into a fine line. "Lavender? He said he was going to see Lavender?"

"I mean, I was really tired, but I'm nearly positive that's what he said, yeah."

"But," she shook her head. "Nevermind. It's nothing. I'll just call him and see when we can get the car back. Otherwise we're basically stuck here, unless you want to ask the neighbor if we can borrow his car, and trust me, you don't. There's nothing within walking distance. It's fine. I'm sure we'll get it all worked out."

Despite her, 'it's fine', she still sounded a bit put out about it.

Harry sighed. "I'm sure he'll be back. He just does stuff like this sometimes, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Trust me, I know."

As she gripped the cat tighter, Harry could not help but think she did not look convinced.

* * *

"The number you are calling cannot be reached at this time."

Hermione stared, dumbfounded, at the phone screen in front of her.

Thinking there must be _something_ wrong, she tried to call again. Same message, that the number couldn't be reached.

After trying to ask him over Facebook and being unable to pull up his profile, she came to a very upsetting conclusion: he had blocked her.

First, he had kissed her. Then he had run off in the middle of the night, cut off contact with her completely, and told Harry he was going to go see his ex girlfriend.

Up until now, she had always thought "seeing red" was just a metaphor, but as her heart began to beat painfully in her restricting chest and her vision seemed to narrow, she thought it might be more literal than she had imagined.

All she could think was that she had been used. Rushing into her bathroom, she brushed her teeth until her gums bled, because even though she had brushed her teeth last night, she suddenly felt as though she could literally taste him in her mouth, the memory of the way he had kissed her rushing to the forefront of her mind.

She felt angry. Furiously angry.

And though she refused to admit it, hurt. There were several things she could think of to possibly rationalize his actions, and yet none of them made her feel better because each one involved her either being so awful he felt the need to flee to his ex girlfriend, or that she was so disposable to him that he honestly felt he could just kiss her and leave with no explanation or consideration for her feelings.

Harry, it seemed, was oblivious to all this. If he had known Ron kissed her before he spontaneously left, he would have said something. Knowing Harry, it probably would have been something awkward and unhelpful, but he would have made an attempt to reassure her.

That, or he'd call Ron and tell him what a colossal git he was being.

She grabbed a pillow from her bed, tossed it across the room, and did her best not to scream or rip her hair out.

* * *

"Can you repeat all of that, perhaps a bit more slowly this time?"

Ron sat on the couch in front of Sirius, trying to think of exactly how to describe what had happened, and why Harry and Hermione needed to get out of the house. Problem was, he wasn't entirely sure of it all himself. It felt like it had all blurred together in an agonizing haze, and each time he tried to remember he could only feel the pain and see those terrifying masks.

And the worst part was that he didn't even have the words to describe it. He barely knew himself what had happened -and even then his grasp on it was weak - there was no way he could articulate it properly.

Hermione had always been better at explaining things. And talking in general.

"Someone, uh, some _thing_ maybe, attacked me in that house. I couldn't move, or scream, but these people -things?- well, they had these weird skull masks and I don't-"

"Boy, please do not take offense to this, and please don't think I'm judging you, but did you take anything before all of this, uh, happened?"

Ron felt his face turn red. He wasn't sure if it was anger, or embarrassment, or a strange combination of the two, but he knew something had happened to him. He knew he wasn't just insane or drunk.

Impulsively, he began pulling off his shirt. Exposing all the half open wounds, bringing the lacerations and burns covering his skin to the center of attention.

"Does _this_ look like something you'd do when you're blitzed, Sirius? And, here," he said, holding out his wrists, still bruised from the restraints, "how did I do all this, then? I was bloody tortured, mate! This isn't a joke, and I'm not mad!"

At the sight, Sirius shuddered. "Alright, I admit that's… well, you need to get that cleaned up. There's a first aid kit in the bathroom, we'll talk about it in there, alright?"

He leaned against the edge of the sink while Sirius began to tend to the injuries. He was surprisingly gentle, but maybe that wasn't so surprising if he had been taking care of Harry all these years.

"Christ kid, you're gonna heal up fine, but it's not gonna be pretty."

"Could have guessed that one for myself, thanks," he shot back with a glare.

As he applied a butterfly bandage to a particularly nasty looking cut, Sirius asked again. "Tell me again, everything that happened, everything you can remember."

So he started from what he remembered as the beginning, being brutally awoken restrained to a chair in the basement, and continued from there.

"And then, they uh, they said they'd let me go, but only if I followed these conditions for after I left the house. So I agreed, and they did -let me go, that is. And I thought about going home, but I thought this might be better."

"No, you were right to come here. The burrow is too far for one night, and you're hurt. What did they ask of you?"

The tone Sirius was using was gentle, too much so to be completely genuine(the concern was real, but Ron had a heavy suspicion it was for his mental health, not the situation at hand), but he was listening at least.

Better than nothing.

"Just that I leave the house, never come back. Told me to tell Harry I was leaving."

Sirius' expression hardened, his jaw clenching and the grip he had on the disinfectant tightening. The polite look of concern faded immediately at the first mention of Harry.

He tired not to be offended.

"What did they want with Harry? Did they threaten him too?"

 _Oh, now you believe me?_

Shaking his head, Ron forced the thought from his mind. _Priorities_ , as Hermione would say. "No, actually nothing of the sort. Didn't sound like they wanted anything to do with him. Actually, uh-"

Pausing, he wet his lips.

"Whatever it is, spit it out."

"I think they wanted Hermione. Not Harry. They didn't seem to care about him, didn't care if I talked to him at all or anything."

The other man's eyes narrowed. "Hermione?"

Dumbly, he nodded an affirmation. "Yeah. Hermione."

He hadn't realized it before, hadn't thought about it. At the time, his only worry had been to get out. Now that he did, he felt his mouth to dry and his throat felt like it was closing.

If Hermione wasn't alright, he wasn't sure what he would do, but it wouldn't be pretty.

* * *

"I honestly can't believe the nerve of him. All of this nonsense about 'it's going to be so fun, just the three of us, blah blah blah, shit shit shit!' Was it all just bullshit?"

Tom was once again sprawled out on the bed, watching the fuming girl in front of him pace back and forth through the room so much she might actually scratch the wood.

No matter if she did; Bella would polish it again anyways. That wouldn't be until Monday, though.

"Yeah, it probably was," he replied casually. "Is he usually dependable? How often can you genuinely trust him to say what he means?"

"Well, usually," she paused, running a shaky hand through her hair. "You don't know him, he's not usually like this. I mean, he freaks out sometimes, but…" She trailed off, seemingly too conflicted to finish her sentence.

"Only a second ago, you were furious with him," he reminded her.

"I am, trust me, I am! It's just-"

"Why are you so defensive of him?" He asked, feeling maybe more than a little annoyed. "Why do you even care if he runs off? He didn't exactly take into account _your_ feelings, did he? He didn't seem to care about how this would affect you. You think he's out there defending your character, or even so much as thinking about you?"

For a moment, she seemed actually stunned.

 _Good._

"It's not the point if he's thinking about me," she said, tone guarded. He could tell she didn't mean a damn word of it. "The point is that he ditched us. I almost didn't even come here, but Harry needed me, so I did. And if I hadn't, and he'd still run off like this, then what?"

Always pretending to be so noble, always caring for the welfare of those too ignorant, weak, and stupid to care for themselves.

It was annoying. The constant self depreciation was beneath her.

"Have you considered that you're worth more than being Potter's glorified babysitter? There are better uses for your time, I can assure you."

She shook her head. "It's not that, it's just-" she trailed off, shaking her head again. Apparently she had trouble finishing her sentences when she was distraught.

"'It's just' what?"

He tried to sound welcoming and supportive without overdoing it. It wasn't difficult, but it did feel odd. Regardless, it seemed to relax her a bit.

"It's just that, before coming here, I had my parents. It's not like they're dead, but they're not exactly supportive right now either. And I _hate_ knowing that they don't even want to see me, but I justified it by remembering that I still had Ron and Harry, you know? I wasn't alone. I was still accomplishing something. But with Ron leaving, it makes me nervous. I don't want to have made some huge mistake by coming here."

"You haven't," he was quick to assure her. "This place is exactly what you need."

When she spoke of her parents, her tone was one of sadness, of some misplaced sorrow, but he could hear something else, something he could relate to.

 _Resentment_. _Anger._

The same way he felt when he spoke of his own parents.

"You're not a sacrificial lamb," he told her, softness from before mostly discarded.

"I know I'm not."

"No, you don't. You really don't. It's always ' _oh, my parents wanted me to do this'_ or ' _Harry needs me to do that_ ' with you," he said, ignoring her scowl at the way he poorly mimicked her voice, "and honestly, it's pathetic. It's degrading. Do something for your damn self once in a while, will you?"

Her mouth opened and shut a few times, like she was going to argue but thought better of it. Eventually, she settled on just giving him another firm glare.

 _That's right_ , he thought, a corner of his mouth beginning to lift just slightly.

Generally, he found other people to be dull. Boring. Occasionally useful, but not much fun in their own right.

That being said, he couldn't help but notice certain parallels between himself and the girl, Hermione, and he wouldn't deny that it intrigued him.

But that anger that he held onto was better, more productive, than the self sacrificing display of utter pity she seemed to be allowing to control her. That wasn't a big deal, though. He could fix it. The potential(and a spark of spite) was there, he just had to nurture it.

Getting people angry had always come easy to him.

Though getting her angry at _him_ would be counterproductive. He'd have to direct that rage appropriately.

"Hermione," he said, once again pulling her out of her distraught pacing, "if you didn't have to worry about everyone else, not your parents, or your friends, or anyone, what would you be doing?"

She paused, absentmindedly biting her lower lip. "Well, there's always someone to worry about. There's always some good to be done in the world."

"Humor me," he argued, "imagine there wasn't. Just you. What would you want to do?"

With that, she noticeably brightened. Unsurprising.

"Well, I suppose if it were just me, I'd want to travel. Go everywhere I could, and learn about whatever I wanted."

"You can learn while you're here, you know. About the house, but beyond that, about everything - I believe the term you've gone with is 'supernatural'? - Whatever, semantics don't matter when you already know what I'm saying. Go anywhere in the world, you still won't find anything close to the information you have freely at your disposal here. This is an incredible opportunity and you should know that."

He hated that she called all of this 'supernatural', because that was inaccurate, but she didn't like calling it anything 'occult' because that 'sounds too Church of Satan'.

He was right that it didn't matter right now, though. Semantics.

She looked up at him then, and he knew he had her. Able to identify each bit of emotion flickering in her expression, he recognized it as the same he had felt for himself when he had been discovering all of this.

"And you have a teacher. Someone to help you," he added.

Determination. Ambition. Spite. Hunger.

He knew all of that very well, and he knew that he had her now, hook, line, and sinker.

* * *

After calling a dozen times in one day, Harry came to the conclusion that Ron was not going to pick up the phone. It wasn't going straight to voicemail, but he wasn't answering either. Or responding to texts, but that was normal.

Maybe he was just sleeping.

Deciding to ignore it for now, Harry continued his research on Snape.

According to what Harry found online, he was a priest, and he lived not far from here in a town called Spinner's End. Where he met Lily, presumably. They grew up together in that town, but didn't meet James until school years later.

It wouldn't be difficult to drive up and see him. Well, not in theory. In practice it would probably be quite difficult, unless he could somehow Hermione to come with him instead of trying to discourage him.

He decided he'd think on it, and kept reading.

A bit later, his ringing phone pulled him away from his research. Practically jumping to grab his phone as soon as it went off, he answered without even bothering to check the caller ID.

"Hello?"

He tried not to sound disappointed when he heard Sirius was on the other end, not Ron groveling apologies and murmuring about how he drank too much.

"Hey kid, just calling to check in on you. Your friend dropped by earlier, left the car here. His brother came by to pick him up a few minutes ago."

"Yeah? Is he alright, then?"

"Just a bit homesick, I reckon. He's never been away from his home or his family for this long, so I'm not surprised it was a bit difficult for him to adjust."

"So, you don't think he's coming back then?"

"Not for a bit, at least. I'm sure he'll visit, though But, speaking of visiting-"

Harry was nearly positive he had just gotten to the real reason for the call. In general, Sirius was more of a texter. Phone calls were saved for conversations he deemed important.

"It's 'Mione's birthday next week. I was thinking that I'd drive the car up and stay for a few days, help the two of you celebrate properly. Are her parents coming up? We could get dinner; I still remember a few of the places your parents used to go. Have Remus pick me up, and we won't have to worry about finding a way to get you the car back. Sound good?"

Despite no one being there to see it, Harry nodded. "Yeah, sounds great, but no, Mr and Mrs Granger won't be there. They're still, rather put out, I guess. Don't mention it to Hermione, she's pretty upset about it.

"We technically have a guest room, but if you want you can just stay in Ron's since he's not here. I'll tell Mione. I'm sure she'd be happy to see you."

He was still convinced Ron would come back, but he wasn't entirely sure when. Maybe not immediately if he really missed his family that much, but eventually. Two weeks maybe? A month? Ron could be impulsive when provoked, but his pride was what kept him from resolving things straight away.

"Excellent. I'll talk to you later, kid. Be safe. Don't do drugs. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Harry nearly snorted into the phone.

"Because you would definitely be safe and you'd totally stay away from drugs? You've told me an awful lot of stories from your college days, Sirius, and we both know how that turned out."

"Don't do anything Remus wouldn't do, then."

With that, he heard the click of the line dropping and he went downstairs to find Hermione before he forgot to tell her.

* * *

Only a few steps behind Tom, Hermione paced out of the room and down the hall with a sense of determination.

Tom was right.

It was silly to be worrying about Ron when she had so much more she could be doing. There were still dozens of files in the basement she hadn't gone over, terms she hadn't researched, and books she hadn't read. She spent all of last summer trying to convince Ron to pull his head out of Lavender's arse and do something productive(she seemed to be the only one unsurprised when Ron didn't finish his summer reading on time).

To spend her time thinking about him when there were more important things to worry about would be hypocritical.

Regardless, she still had Harry to worry about.

Tom had just reached the door to the top of the stairs when she stopped him, his hand still reaching for the doorknob.

The doorknob, not the lock.

"Wait." She rushed over, ignoring the look of confusion on his face.

She checked the lock, and then again just to be sure. It was unlocked. Tom hadn't touched it yet, she was sure. It was unlocked.

Turning to Tom, she opened her mouth to ask him about it, when she heard something that completely distracted her.

"Hermione?"

She immediately recognized Harry's voice, and sprung into action. Opening the door to the basement, she pushed Tom inside and then pressed it shut behind him, hoping it didn't make too much noise.

For weeks, no, _months_ now(just over two, specifically), she had managed to hide Tom from Harry. Well, it really spoke more of Tom's evasive skills than her own, seeing as he was the one doing the sneaking, but she took partial credit. She was still lying, after all.

Maybe not lying, but withholding information she had promised to give. Is a lie by omission still a lie?

Now was not the time to consider it.

Harry rounded the corner into the hall. "There you are! I knew I heard someone down here. An actual someone, that is, not Crookshanks."

Two people, actually. Not that Harry knew that.

"Yeah, well, that'll be me." Even as she felt like a neon sign screaming 'LIAR!' was pointing right at her, she smiled.

"Just wanted to tell you: Sirius is coming up next week for your birthday. He's bringing the car with him, so we don't need to take an uber or anything to go get it."

" _Your_ godfather is coming up for _my_ birthday?"

"Don't say it like that, you know he likes you."

"That's not really the point I was making, I was just commenting that it's an odd excuse to visit. Either way, I'd love to see him. Are we going to set up the guest room, or..?"

Harry shook his head. "He'll probably just stay in Ron's, since, well, you know. Anyways, he's gonna bring the car up with him. So we'll be getting it back next week. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

Harry dismissed himself, mumbling something about a video game as he turned back and left. As he did, Hermione turned back to the stairs.

Well, the lock to the door at the top of the stairs.

She was positive it was unlocked when she and Tom approached it a few minutes ago. She was fairly certain she had locked it before bed, but not completely sure.

Generally she followed a routine, and that was part of it, but what if she had missed that bit? There was an actual reason she kept it locked.

Suddenly, she felt a pang of guilt blooming in her chest. Had she somehow forgotten last night, and that's why Ron had left? It was _always_ him who got hurt when she left it unlocked, never herself or Harry.

Tom had said it was because he was "weak willed and easily controlled", but she doubted that were actually the case.

If she forgotten to check the lock, what had happened? Why did he suddenly freak out now, but not the first few nights it happened?

The first thing she should do, she decided, was ask Tom about it. He was in the house more than anyone else, he might know. If not Tom, then maybe Bella(though considering it happened overnight, she wouldn't hold her breath for that).

After she made her way down the stairs, she quickly found Tom already situated, lounging in what she had come to think of as "the torture chair", book in hand. She wrinkled her nose at seeing him so comfortable in it, but didn't comment.

By now, she understood that he was surprisingly relaxed about subjects normal people considered gruesome.

"Were you down here earlier?" She asked, getting back to the question she had earlier.

For only a second, so quick she wasn't even sure she really noticed it, he seemed to freeze, fingers no longer idly flipping through the pages. The question must have distracted him. "Why do you ask?"

"The door was unlocked when we got to the top of the stairs. I wanted to make sure I didn't forget to lock it last night."

"You didn't," he replied, dismissive as ever. "I was down here before you texted me. I left it unlocked, not you."

Well, that explained one thing.

Jumping out of the chair in a strikingly swift and graceful manner, he motioned for her to come over to the desk. "I wanted to show you something. Here, I was looking through these last night. What do you think?"

He opened a worn out leather bound book and directed her to a page. After giving the handwritten words a glance, she sent him an incredulous look.

"Witchcraft, really? You expect me to believe all this is possible because an old bat a hundred years ago lit a couple black candles in this basement?"

He grinned, shaking his head. "Not at all. That was my reaction as well, actually. I just wanted to hear your thoughts, given that I've exposed you to an awful lot of things you didn't think were real. Good to know you've retained critical thinking skills."

It was almost sweet, actually. Even with the somewhat passive aggressive compliment. Very rarely did people seem to care about what she thought beyond homework or other immediately useful assignments. She still refused to turn into a blushing idiot about it.

"Well, I prefer to base my beliefs off evidence, thank you very much."

Pulling the chair out for her, he grinned just slightly. "I've noticed. Anyways, while I don't put much stock in the witchcraft theory, there is some useful stuff in there that I suggest you read though. All of that is in Hepzibah's handwriting, because those are her observations of the house early on, before anything happened here. See if you notice anything interesting."

With him settling back on the torture chair(she really needed to come up with a better name for that, she decided) with his book, and her at the desk with Hepzibah's, they continued to read in silence, interrupted only by occasional questions or comments on the text.

From what Hermione could tell, the book was not very scientific and reminded her a lot of the experiments that she did in her earliest years of school. Apparently Hepzibah fancied herself a medium, and took to studying how Grindelwald was changing the "aura" of the home. Based almost entirely on personal observation and very little on things that could be definitively measured(rather than judging temperature by number, for example, she would simply say it "felt colder than usual", not taking into account outside variables), the entries weren't entirely useless, but they weren't a goldmine either.

Better than nothing though, and what really interested her was the glimpse she got into Grindelwald's experiments from an outside perspective.

According to Hepzibah, none of his "patients" died in the house. Even when the experiments described were gruesome, she had a strict "No deaths on the premises" policy - if someone was going to die, she had Gellert take them elsewhere to do it.

It seemed their marriage, while not loving or even remotely normal, was functional by its own standards. She brought him clients and didn't tell anyone he was gay, and he kept her living a comfortable life of luxury.

Hermione found it particularly unnerving that the woman only seemed to care when it would affect her house(Hepzibah claimed that if that the "stench of death would seep into the wood"), but it's not as though her opinion mattered in this instance. She was almost a century too late to be able to change anything.

After several hours of page flipping and smudge decoding, she began to doze off without even realizing it.

* * *

She awoke to the feeling of movement around her ankles, and she shifted in response. Lowering her hand, she moved it down under the desk and began to bat away the cat she had gotten so used to curling around her after she passed out studying.

When her hand didn't come in contact with fluffy fur, but with the distinct feeling of skin, she opened her eyes.

Her own eyes met a pair of dark brown irises, and she jerked away and began to scream.

A woman, with short cut dark brown hair, sickly looking skin, and a blood stained, ripped dress had a firm grip on one ankle, while a man looking just as sick and injured had reached out to grab the wrist she had dangled down.

They both shook as they held her, perhaps due to weakness or shock or some combination of the two, but the grasp was firm. Her flailing and squirming didn't loosen their grip. The woman looked at her with a pleading expression, almost like she was begging, and began to tug harder.

Tom had said before that the Longbottoms were confused, driven insane by what they went through. Now, they just tried to explain what had happened. She was just asking for help.

Just as Hermione forced herself to calm down, as she was preparing to try and offer any assistance she could, the woman was being literally kicked off of her, pushed back into the shadows.

Harshly, Tom reappeared in front of her(she assumed he had come back when he heard her startled screaming) and violently shooed the couple away like they were wild animals.

Showing no visible reaction to the blow, the woman didn't so much as raise a hand to where she had been hit, just crawled back. No crying, no bruising or bleeding, no sickening crunch of broken bone, nothing. Her husband followed quickly behind her.

"Leave her alone."

Even though she knew where it was coming from, she almost didn't recognize the voice; It didn't sound familiar. Unlike the tone she was used to hearing from Tom, this sounded indifferent, completely devoid of emotion. He wasn't exactly a warm, friendly person to begin with, but usually he didn't sound so utterly cold.

While he wasn't yelling, or even raising his voice at all, that almost made it worse.

"Tom, it's fine. I was just startled. They're just-"

"They're not going to bother you again," he cut her off, reaching for her wrist. His fingers wrapped around it with a contrasting gentleness, checking for marks. His skin felt dry and cold, almost like an ice pack against her irritated skin.

The skin had turned slightly red, but it wouldn't even bruise. In a few minutes, it would be fine.

They hadn't tried to hurt her.

She turned her head back to check, to see if they were still there, but they had left. Disappeared back into the shadows they crawled out of. He had scared them off.

"They only wanted help, Tom. They didn't mean any harm. You didn't have to hit them like that."

His hand reached out, grabbing her chin, and tilting it back to him. His other hand still hadn't released her wrist.

"They're dead, Hermione. Nothing I do can hurt them. You're not dead. They can still hurt you. Even if they don't _mean_ to, they can."

Technically that wasn't wrong, but she still felt bad about not helping them, about watching them get hurt.

Well, maybe not hurt(since they couldn't really get hurt), but treated so harshly.

"Okay, but shouldn't we do something?" She tried to move her head again, to look back, but he held her jaw firmly in place.

"Hermione, look at me," he said, gently, coaxing, and she complied. "No, you can't help them. No one can. There's nothing you can do. Do you understand?"

She didn't agree that there was nothing she could do, and decided that she absolutely would look into it more, but she nodded. At this exact moment, he was probably right. For all she knew, she might accidentally make things worse.

Watching her nod, he smiled with satisfaction and released his hold on her. His hand moved instead to her hair, smoothing it down, running his fingers through it.

"I'm not going to let anything here hurt you."

Still feeling a bit uneasy, she nodded again. It didn't seem like they wanted to hurt her, but she knew she needed to be rational about it. He was right that just because they didn't mean to hurt her didn't mean they wouldn't.

She glanced back, but they were still gone.

"Are they always here? They don't just hang around watching, do they?"

He made a noise that closely resembled a repressed scoff. "They don't exactly have anywhere else to go, you know. They are stuck here."

"Well, yeah, but-"

"But?" He asked, voice suddenly laced with that familiar mischief she recognized. His other hand left her wrist, and instead settled on her knee, thumb beginning to trace little circles against her skin. "You don't like the idea of people watching you? Afraid someone might catch you with a hand between your thighs?"

Giving him a stern look(which was likely rendered useless by the blush that began to bloom on her cheeks), she crossed her legs(discarding his hand) and folded her arms properly over her chest. " _No_ , that is _not_ what I'm saying. But as a human being, I would appreciate privacy occasionally. And I'd prefer to actually know if someone is there, rather than just-"

"Relax. They mostly stick to the basement anyways, and no one is boring enough to be satisfied watching you read all day, not even dead people. Besides, I did tell you I won't let anything here hurt you. Don't you trust me?"

Generally, that was a big question with a variety of answers. It was far too broad and depended entirely on context. A person may be trustworthy in one manner and not in another. Harry, for example, could be trusted to sucker punch anyone who tried to hurt her(example: McLaggen, two years ago, when he wouldn't keep his hands off her at the holiday party, even after she had said 'no groping'), but could not be trusted to get to bed on time if his life, or his grades, depended on it.

With the context of the current question, she knew Tom was asking if she trusted him not to let anything hurt her here.

Not needing to think over her answer further, she nodded.

The thought of being watched every moment of every day still made her skin crawl


End file.
